


Freedom's Promise/Revas’avaran

by Zeden (Sepia_Tone)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drama & Romance, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:55:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29290947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sepia_Tone/pseuds/Zeden
Summary: Corypheus has been defeated. The Inquisition stands triumphant thanks to Ellana Lavellan and her inner circle of friends. All of Thedas clamors to meet the woman who saved the world and the Orlesian empire. But even as the celebrations begin, darker forces seek to destroy the Inquisitor.
Relationships: Abelas/Female Lavellan (Dragon Age), Zevran Arainai/Dorian Pavus
Kudos: 1





	1. All of Me

**Author's Note:**

> So... I accidentally posted an older unedited version of this. xD It wasn't until the last chapter that I noticed. Sorry for the confusion! I am reposting slowly now and making certain it is the latest edited version. I've been working on this story for years and there are multiple copies swimming around. Anyway, I hope you find something to enjoy in this weirdness!

_As I reflect on the last two years, I question why I bonded with Solas. Part of me thinks it was because of the loneliness I have felt since leaving the clan. The other part, the one that I try desperately to ignore, knows that being promised to a man that I did not love, blinded me to some degree. It wasn't a physical attraction per se, rather, I was drawn to Solas’s words—they were intoxicating._

_Solas was the first person to help me understand that I possessed a very limited perception of the world. Before the explosion at the Divine Conclave, my life felt like it had already been mapped out. The Keeper of my clan had decided that I would make an acceptable First—a prestigious title that many in my clan envied, but not me. Not if I am honest. It’s a self sacrificing role where you learn that what you want out of life no longer matters, that the good of the clan comes first. Once you grasp_ _that_ _concept, you have a private funeral for your former self—at least I did—and then you shove all your dreams away and live for everyone else. Do I sound bitter? I am._

_My parents were so proud of me being named First. Of course they were, since many Dalish parents hope it will be their child who turns out to be the golden halla of the clan, and I was determined not to let them down. It was no secret that I had been somewhat of a disappointment to Senriel and Mera up until that point in my life. I had problems killing animals, I found it boring to sit around an open fire listening to our once glorious past, I am allergic to iron bark, and I hated my training as First so much that I would go off into the forest when finished and pray I’d be attacked by something big enough to kill me._

_This leads me to Arden. My parents suggested the clan’s best hunter as a potential bond-mate one night over dinner. I wondered how they could expect this of me? Had I not given enough? But it wasn’t enough. I could see the hope and expectation in their faces, and I had craved their approval for as long as I could remember, so I agreed. I didn’t love Arden, actually I hated him then as I do now._

_It was Solas who first challenged my beliefs and opened my eyes to other possibilities. The first time he expressed his disdain for the Dalish, I was offended, but then something unexpected happened—I began to listen to what he had to say. Those strange mystic words he spoke of the Beyond and spirits, painting pictures of the ancient elves living in castles, whose magic was as natural as breathing to them. It was freedom and rebellion, and I fell headfirst into it and never looked back. It wasn’t until we entered the Temple of Mythal and I came face-to-face with actual ancient elves that I truly understood why Solas scoffed at the Dalish attempt to preserve history. I still think he was an ass at times and I found it odd that he was willing to lay with me when he hated the very thing I represented. I’m not sure what that makes me either. Do I hate myself so much that I would sleep with a man who belittled me and my culture?_ _I suppose, if I am honest, I never felt like I belonged when I lived with the clan. It seems fate decided that I was destined for something more, as if the Inquisition was always my calling._

_Now that Solas is gone, I question my decision to trust him, to sleep with him, to deny the Dalish part of myself and pretend his words didn’t frighten me. Not just frighten; they hurt me. According to him, my people take pride in a lie. It saddens me to my core because I know it’s true and the worst part—I am powerless to make them understand. My only hope is that my relationship with Solas meant more than just sex._

Ellana laid her head down on the leather bound journal she had been writing in. The cover was soon stained by tears. Six months ago Solas had decided to leave just moments after the defeat of Corypheus. Often, she would relive that day in a vain attempt to understand why. Solas had been standing on top of a debris pile, remarkably unscathed considering what they had just faced. A dragon and a deformed ancient magister were nothing if not formidable enemies. The way Solas spoke, the broken foci in his hand, his eyes willing it back together, it pointed to something more. None of it made sense in that instant, yet there had always been clues that perhaps he wasn’t simply an apostate from some backwater village. It didn’t matter. She _would_ find him and she would have her answers. This she had sworn in Mythal’s name.

The door to Ellana’s bedchamber opened and her close friend Dorian emerged. The sound of muffled sobbing echoed throughout the room. Ellana was seated at her desk, facedown with her head cradled in her arms. It had become a familiar sight. _I wonder if she has been writing in her journal again?_ It had been Dorian’s idea that she express her feelings in writing rather than beat his Qunari boyfriend with a large stick. 

“Is this something you southerners do—attempt to write journal entries with the power of your minds alone?” Dorian asked. He was standing in the doorway with a tray in his hands, beaming a sympathetic smile her way. “Are quills really that old-fashioned?”

“Go away, Dorian,” Ellana muttered. The proximity of the journal to her mouth had muffled her words. “I am busy.”

Dorian cast a critical eye over Ellana's room. The four poster Orlesian bed was unmade, crumpled satin sheets hung loosely at the edges, odd piles of worn clothing strewn across the foot of it. Dirty wine glasses, dishes, and used cutlery sat on every available surface, and littering the floor were broken quills and empty wine bottles. To his amusement, there was a hand-drawn picture of a bald elf with a dagger through its head hanging behind her desk.

“I thought I would save the kitchen staff the trouble and bring you tea today.” Dorian sniffed the steaming brown liquid. It was an expensive black tea from Tevinter, and it smelled almost as fresh as the day the leaves had been picked. But that wasn’t the best part. The best part was that it reminded him of home. “I noticed you have taken to drinking it with some regularity. Any particular reason why?”

Ellana pointed roughly in the direction of the bald elf drawing. “Solas hated it.” Her hand dropped unceremoniously to her side.

“So let me get this straight—you drink tea to spite him? Forgive me for saying so, but that seems rather childish.”

Ellana stood up quickly, grabbing the top of the chair for support. The chair toppled over as she used it to propel her small body forward. Two steps later and Dorian realized she was drunk. 

“Solas is the one who is childish for running off and leaving me to deal with all of this.” Ellana's flailing arms seemed to gesture to the mess in her room, however, Dorian was certain she meant political problems rather than untidiness.

“Not to take sides but—Solas had mentioned leaving once the battle was finished. You weren't a couple, correct? Then why are you so angry with him?” Dorian expected the answer to be entertaining. He cared a great deal for Ellana but the current conversation was comedy gold.

Ellana stomped her small elven foot in protest. The maneuver reminded Dorian of a much younger version of himself. “Why don't you just slap me in the face next time, Dorian? It would be kinder than suggesting our friendship meant nothing to him.”

The liquor had obviously not dulled her pain. Dorian was sage enough to know that playing devil's advocate at the wrong time never ended well. But this was his best friend and he loved and respected her too much to keep his mouth shut. “Do you want the truth?” 

Ellana folded her arms over her chest and looked away. “I think I've had enough truth thrust at me for a lifetime.”

“You have spent your whole life trying to please your parents and your clan, only to resent yourself for it, my dear. The very day Arden ended your engagement you threw yourself at Solas.” Dorian had been there when it happened. Three hours after receiving the breakup letter from Arden, and a piece of cake later, Ellana could be found in Solas’s room pretending to be fascinated by his rhetoric. “Who better to help you rebel against a life of unfair Dalish expectations than the very man who had belittled your people from the moment you met.” He continued despite the objection forming on the Inquisitor’s lips. “Believe me, I do understand, Ellana. Just look at my relationship with my parents if you need proof.”

 _Expectations_ — _what a horrible fucking word,_ she thought. _Everyone’s shitty selfish expectations have been the bane of my miserable existence for as long as I can remember._ _And it’s true. It’s so fucking true. I fucked Solas to spite Arden and my clan. Fuck Dorian for bringing that up. Creators, I hate it when he is right._ Ellana wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt, and then she looked up at Dorian. He could see the pain in her face, the sorrow Solas and Arden had caused, and he had to look away. No one enjoyed seeing their friend hurt, even if it meant proving their hypothesis correct.

“I didn't believe Solas would really leave, Dorian. I thought he would remain—” she sighed, “—he was my friend and even though I didn’t want more than friendship, I believed he cared enough to stay. Now… I just feel used.” 

“That's the tragedy of it all, my dear.” Dorian wanted to bring the small elven woman into his arms and tell her everything was going to be fine, just like she had done for him when he needed it most. But he couldn’t act on what he didn’t believe. “I highly suspect that the woman who saved the world will always have a difficult time finding a man worthy of her, but I know there is someone out there who will appreciate you more than Solas or Arden ever did.”

Dorian placed the tea and biscuits on a small wooden table near the desk. He walked to the other side of the room with the empty tray in his hand and used it to brush a pile of tissues off of the sofa. “Come sit with me,” he said. Ellana looked at the sofa and then at the four poster bed that sat opposite. The sofa was upholstered in a silk-kissed gold velvet, a fine recommendation by an Orlesian merchant who had wanted to line his pockets instead of ensuring comfort. The cushions were hard as rocks, but the bed—now there was comfort. The Orlesian four poster was covered in satin sheets and warm woolen blankets that shielded her from the miserable mountain breeze. If she had to participate in a conversation concerning her painful love life the bed is where she would sit. 

“Maybe now that your rebellious sex phase has finished, it’s time to move on to something more dignified and healthy,” Dorian suggested. _Does it have to be an elf-man?_ he wondered. _Maker knows Cullen is easy on the eyes. Of course, Cullen and Ellana often argue over… everything. Perhaps what the Inquisitor needs is something different, exotic even. I wonder if that performing dwarven troupe from Nevarra is still visiting?_ “Would it surprise you to know that half of Skyhold would jump at the chance to be with you?”

“There are not many elves here, and we are in the mountains,” she said to him. “It's remote, and ripe for inbreeding.” Entering into a relationship with an elven man living at Skyhold was problematic at best. She was famous now, her name known by the common and noble alike. That fame would make forming an honest relationship difficult. 

Dorian chuckled. “Leave the inbreeding to Tevinter.” _Ah... so she is set on an elf. It’s kind of boring really, but I understand._ He smoothed a wrinkle out of his trousers.“I know the arrangement with Arden didn't go as planned, but have you considered trying again? I’m sure there is more than one eligible Dalish bachelor out there, and this time, you could court one on your terms. Maybe you should hold a fete. Who says no to free food and wine?”

It was true that fame would be less of an issue with a Dalish man. Her people were traditionalist and courtship was entered into only after serious deliberation by the families involved, and by their keepers. But it was irrelevant. Arden had named her a _flat ear,_ and if he thought it, Ellana believed other Dalish men would too. “You and my friends here at Skyhold are my clan.” Ellana fell backwards onto her bed with the grace of a freshly hewn tree. "We're Clan Inquisition."

Dorian wondered why Ellana would think of the Inquisition as her clan. Perhaps Clan Lavellan had stopped communicating. If so, then it would explain why she had seemed so lonely over the last several months. Hell, it would even explain why she always appeared eager to listen to Solas’s mind-numbing rhetoric as if it were the Maker himself speaking. 

When it became obvious that Ellana was close to sleep, Dorian rose from his seat and pulled the covers over his friend.

“Sleep well,” he whispered. “I will be back later.”

Ellana fell asleep to the echo of Dorian's footsteps leaving her bedchamber. The Fade came soon after, and with it, flashes of the battle with Corypheus. It wasn’t a memory she had wanted to relive. The entire fight had tested her every skill, battered her companions, and pitted her against a dragon. If Ellana were kinder to herself, she would have basked in her accomplishment, but the Dalish woman had been taught to be humble from an early age, and that philosophy was heavily ingrained into her psyche. Everything she did was for the survival of her people—you lived by the clan and you died by it—stray from that path and you were no better than the Shemlen.

When the moment of reflection had passed, Ellana found herself staring up at the blackened city. The wavering vision turned to darkness, and from the dark, many glowing eyes suddenly appeared. The penetrating stare could not be avoided no matter where she moved. But she was not frightened. Being hunted by a demon in the Fade was nothing new.

“Be gone,” Ellana said to the eyes. “You cannot tempt me.” The eyes followed her every step. A bolt of lightning streaked from her hands, across the Fade, and landed dead center in one of the intrusive eyes. It did nothing to stop them. “You are the most inept demon I have yet to encounter. If you really want to tempt someone you have to be tempting. Your eyes are creepy, but mostly they are annoying. I tell you this out of pity.”

The eyes blinked in unison. “I am no demon,” a deep, calm voice replied. "I like to watch you.”

“And I am no elf." Ellana tugged on her long pointed ears. "I glue these on every morning and pretend I am part of a subjugated race that excels at poverty for giggles.”

The voice laughed and the sound of it echoed everywhere at once. "Your humor is unexpected."

“Why? Because you thought following me through the Fade was going to frighten me?” Ellana shrugged. The entity, like most in the Fade, would lose interest and move on to easier prey if she continued to show indifference. “Believe it or not, you are not the strangest thing I have encountered this year.”

“You seek to leave?” asked the voice. “You do not wish to know who I am?”

"Not really," she responded sounding bored and indifferent. "I can feel my thoughts turning towards the waking world. Soon, I will be sipping tea and eating a biscuit and you will be left blinking at nothing."

The eyes closed and then suddenly opened in unison. "Do you seek him often?"

It wasn’t the first time a demon had asked this question. "Here we go, I knew it was only a matter of time before this conversation turned personal." She stopped to address one of the eyes. "I seek no one."

"If I had been successful you would have been spared the pain of his leaving," the voice said. "He would be dead."

 _He would be dead._ There was an unnerving certainty in the way those words had been spoken. This demon held a grudge, and that meant it would do anything to harm its target. 

“I would have been spared the pain of this conversation too,” Ellana replied. _How could the demon possibly know that I was searching for Solas?_ It was too specific, too personal. Other demons had sensed her desire to find someone but they did not know the specifics—this demon did. _Maybe Solas's mind barrier techniques are not as powerful as he claimed. It is strange that the technique has worked against other demons._ “We could speed this up, demon. What is it you want to promise me and what do you want in return?”

"I want nothing from you, mortal," the voice said. "But I will lead you to the Dread Wolf so that I may finally have my revenge."

Ellana awoke with a start. The words _dread wolf_ continued to echo through her mind until, after a time, she became aware and alert. Her eyes opened fully to the blinding sun reflecting off the snow-capped mountains. She grabbed a pillow and laid it over her head.

“Elgar'nan,” she mumbled, “that was weird… well, weirder than usual.”

After a quick session of cursing Solas in two different languages, she reluctantly decided to get out of bed. The tea Dorian had brought was cold and the biscuits were being molested by a fly. Ellana's rumbling stomach reminded her that it had been two days since she had a meal that did not start and end with a bottle of wine.

 _I need food. But… I can't go out dressed like this,_ Ellana thought _._ The wine stains on her shirt confirmed that a change of clothes was needed. _I'd never hear the end of it from Josephine. Time for an inquisitorial perusal of my wardrobe._

Ellana decided to forego the unfashionable brown Inquisitor garb, and instead opted for a dress. It was a garment that she had not worn since her younger days _. Should I care that this dress is going to show off my leg scars? Fuck it. I care too much about what everyone else thinks._ Once Ellana had finished dressing, she studied the result in a full-length mirror. The airy blue silk dress, beautiful in its own right, did nothing to hide the bruises, cuts, and stitches from her battle with Corypheus. It was hard to see past the blemishes and understand that those imperfections should have been a badge of pride for the Dalish woman; she had earned each one saving the world. 

Ellana lifted the dress over her head and wrenched it quickly from her body. Practical Dalish sense stopped her from throwing it into the fire. The dress was expensive, worth more silver than a washerwoman would make in a year. She could hear her mother’s voice in her head telling her to give it away if she no longer wanted it. The Dalish were nothing if not hand-me-down gurus. It was ridiculous. Thousands of gold coins in her coffer, and yet, she could not bring herself to burn one measly dress. Ellana grabbed her Inquisitor’s uniform from the wardrobe and dressed. She pulled her long hair into a ponytail, and when she was ready, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. What stared back was a determined looking young woman, proud, dignified _—_ ready to lead. But hidden beneath the facade was the same scared and hurt little girl who still grappled with her place in the world; the little girl who craved unconditional love. She raised her head, and like she did most days, she buried those emotions, the weak ones, the hidden insecurities, and the desperate need to be accepted. 

She looked pointedly into her own eyes and spoke. 

“Corypheus could not best you, Ellana, and neither will Solas.”


	2. No Man and No Clan

It was a typical night in the tavern. Maryden sang of the Inquisitor’s victories and of the sorrows of the people of Thedas. Desperation was in the air, mixed with equal portions of body odor and booze. It wasn’t The Hanged Man, but Varric had decided that if any place in Skyhold was going to make him feel like home it was here.

“So Broody rips the guy’s heart out and walks away...” Varric took another swig of his ale. The story was best told drunk. “...and we are standing there under this big tree with our mouths hanging open and nothing! The elf doesn’t even blink.”

“You’re lying,” Iron Bull protested. “I’ve seen my share of hardcore action, but what he did would make it all seem like a wet dream.” The Quanari shook his head and gulped down his choice drink, the one that killed the nerves in a person’s throat. “So—your pretty mage friend is into that?”

Varric shrugged and looked at his ale, as if it might be able to help him make sense of the female mind. “What can I say, Hawke gets turned on by crazy.” The reminder of Hawke brought some of the more painful memories of Kirkwall to mind. Varric dulled the pain with more alcohol. “Like I said, if you see a trail of corpses you’ll probably find Fenris at the end of it with the pretty mage at his side.”

“The Ben Hassrath still whisper tales of Hawke and how she defeated the Arishok in single combat,” Iron Bull informed him. “I know it’s true, but damn,” he smiled, “lucky elf.”

Varric tapped his mug against Bull’s mug. “Luckiest broody bastard I know.”

It had been several months since Varric had last seen Hawke and Fenris together. The couple had found a quiet town in the Free Marches to settle in, while the inhabitants of Kirkwall came to terms with the explosion of the chantry. The couple had been safe, together, and happy, and it was the main reason Varric had tried to protect their location from Cassandra, a decision he still stood by.

“They have any kids?” Bull asked. “They’d be badasses.”

Varric choked on his ale. The mere mention of Hawke, Fenris, and children in the same sentence was enough to startle him. “I don’t want to think about that,” he wheezed, “It scares the shit out of me.”

Varric decided to stop chatting and drink more. It was the only way he was going to blot out the mental image of Hawke and Fenris’s nonexistent demon children.

The sound of _your worship_ spoken by various people in the tavern was a sure sign that the Inquisitor had entered. Varric turned to see Ellana covered head to toe in a thick black cloak. She had started wearing the garment after the defeat of Corypheus, once it had become obvious that her admirers were going to hound her every step. The cloak had worked on the Orlesians, who expected the Inquisitor to dress and act like they would after saving the world. But Ellana wasn’t a braggart and she hated any type of showmanship, which begged the question: how did Dorian end up becoming her best friend? Varric would figure that on another day, when he was less drunk.

Ellana tapped Bull on the shoulder. “Mind if I cut in?”

Iron Bull patted his lap. “Here boss, have a seat.”

“Maker’s breath, did you really just ask the Inquisitor to sit on your lap?” Varric snorted into his ale. The thought of Andraste’s Herald boozing it up while sitting on a makeshift Qunari bar stool horrified him. “You can’t do that.”

“Now I really am tempted to take him up on the offer, Varric,” Ellana teased. The dwarf breathed a sigh of relief when the Inquisitor parked her posterior on the wooden barstool. “So… what are you two whispering about?”

Bull poured the Inquisitor a glass of his favored alcoholic beverage. Her face paled when she noticed it was to the brim. “Varric was just telling me about this elf who can rip people’s hearts from their chests,” Bull explained. “He was a 'Vint’s slave.”

Varric rubbed his forehead and sighed. Whether Ellana liked it or not, she was a religious symbol to him and their current conversation felt less than appropriate. “I knew I’d regret telling you.”

“Oh, I know about Fenris.” Ellana smiled into her mug and blushed. “I read Varric’s book and I’d like to meet him.”

 _So the Inquisitor has a thing for Broody? Wait until I tell Hawke. Better yet, wait until I tell Broody._ Varric smiled. “Uh huh, and just so you know, Hawke is the jealous type. Besides, Fenris has far too much hair for your liking.”

“If the Inquisitor and Hawke were to fight, who do you think would win?” The Qunari banged his fist on the bar. “This needs to happen. Can we make this happen?”

“Broody isn’t worth it. Ten minutes alone with him and the Inquisitor would hand him back to Hawke. Trust me, she’s the only one who can deal with that bastard.” Varric drank the idea away. “He’s not Lavellan’s type.”

“Oh? What is my type, Varric?” she asked him. The inquisitive eyebrow had risen. Varric hated that eyebrow, the same one that rose right before she cut off a man’s head. To be on the receiving end of it was more than a little disconcerting.

 _I wonder if Hawke has a spell that will make me mute right before I am about to say something I’ll regret?_ Varric mentally laughed. _If she does, I’d probably never get to open my mouth again. “Well...” he muttered, “...from what I’ve seen, it seems you like the contemplative quiet type with a penchant for looking homeless, not the kill-first-ask-questions-later type, but hey, what do I know?”_

The Elven woman took a sip of her drink and immediately gasped for air. “I am thinking of changing my taste in men,” she managed to choke out.

“Might not be a bad idea,” Varric suggested. “You see, the quiet ones always have something to hide.”

Bull winked at Ellana. “How do you feel about horns?”

“I’m indifferent, but I will admit that they come in handy in a fight,” she answered. “Besides, you’re already taken, Bull.”

Varric chuckled “Or if we need a makeshift coat rack.”

Bull finished off his drink and placed his empty mug on the bar. “I’m going to bed. Promised Cassandra I’d have one of the Chargers show her how to throw a spear tomorrow. Need to be awake for that.”

“You sure that equipping the Seeker with another phallic instrument of death is the best idea?” Varric asked. “How many does she need?”

Bull shrugged. “Said she wants to try something new. I think she’s trying to keep her mind off Leliana as the next divine.”

“Well, that’s understandable, I guess.” Varric rubbed his bristles while he imagined Leliana dressed in chantry robes. “I can’t wait to see Red in the hat.”

Bull rose from his stool. “Good night…” Two silver coins fell from his hand onto the bar. Cabot was a terrible barkeep and a worse conversationalist, but he kept the drinks coming. “Oh, and Varric, I wouldn’t mention the hat to Red.”

“I don’t have a death wish.” Varric shook his head and had a long drink. Maker knows he feared Leliana on the best of days, but when she was in one of her “moods” he hid. Were her killing days really over, he wondered. It was hard to imagine the Divine skulking around in the shadows killing people in that ridiculous get up the chantry demanded they wear.

“Good night, Bull,” Ellana said to him. I wonder if he is going to go see Dorian? She finished the sentiment with a wave.

Bull smiled down at the Inquisitor. “Night, boss.”

Varric watched Bull walk out of the tavern. How he was able to stand upright was a mystery for the ages.

“You know,” Varric began to say, “when I found out we were going to have a Qunari in the group all I could think about was the Kirkwall invasion. But Bull is alright as far as Qunari go.”

“He is,” Ellana agreed. She sighed into her drink. “I still feel bad that I got him declared Tal-Vashoth, but I think if he had lost the Chargers, it would have destroyed him.” It was one of many life changing decisions she had made on the fly as Inquisitor. Bull had told her soon after that it was the right call, but she had never wanted the kind of power that could change her friend’s lives forever in a blink of an eye. “Then again, being an outcast isn’t an easy way to live either.”

 _She’s speaking from personal experience, no doubt._ The Inquisitor’s shoulders slumped and her expression dropped. She looked like a woman who had lost everything, and in a way, she had. There was something tragic about a Dalish elf forced from their clan by circumstance or otherwise—a real loss of innocence in a sense. Of course, Varric knew no one was truly innocent, there were just degrees of it, if say… it had been some snobby noble instead of the naive Dalish elf who had inherited the magical mark, it wouldn’t evoke the same sense of loss. Maybe that is what made it so easy for him to see Ellana as Andraste’s herald. It was meant to happen—it had to be—otherwise it really was too tragic to think about.

“Want to talk about it?” Varric asked.

“I’m going to spend the rest of my life alone, aren’t I?” Ellana shrugged. Three months ago she was content to just be alive. But once life returned to routine and it was apparent Solas was not returning, and the realization hit: she was lonely. “No clan and no man. That is my new motto.”

Varric hadn’t anticipated that the Inquisitor would actually want to talk about it. “What? No… why do you think that?” he asked. “Look, you can’t let one selfish bastard make you feel like this. You know, Hawke once said the same thing to me, but in the end, she found her perfect cup of crazy. It’ll happen for you too.”

Ellana looked at her wavy reflection in the mug. “Maybe Arden is right. Maybe I need to accept that I am too much of a flat ear for a Dalish man.”

“The clan thing...” Varric sighed, “...you have people here who care about you. They don’t all have pointy ears and hate humans, but they care.”

Ellana raised the glowing anchor on her hand and stared at the green wavering light, still wondering, just like she had the day she received it, if it was a blessing or a curse. “I am tethered to the Inquisition, and even if I chose to leave, those who believe I really am the Herald of Andraste would follow me wherever I go.” She let her hand fall to her side. “Maybe it’s best if I stay single.”

Varric was not often lost for words, but what could he say to that? Unless something drastic happened, like the Maker falling out of the sky and landing on his ass in front of the Divine, the Inquisitor would always be a religious symbol of hope for many people. Varric picked up a coin from the bar and twiddled it between his fingers. “Tell me something… what happened between you and Chuckles? I thought for sure you were an item or working on becoming one.”

Ellana turned several shades of red. No one except Dorian had dared to ask that question. “Solas and I had a friends-with-benefits arrangement, if you get what I mean. But... I did not believe he would leave, Varric. I drew strength from him and I thought...” she closed her eyes and tried to deny the loss she felt. “It doesn’t matter.”

The two friends sat in silence under the flicker of a dim candle. Until now, Varric had never considered how lonely her life would be without Solas. It was like his odd relationship with Bianca, and it reminded him how much he already missed the sound of her voice. Just look at us. Aren’t we two miserable peas in a pod tonight?

“I’m sorry Varric,” Ellana whispered. “I did not intend to ruin your evening too.”

“Bah… don’t be ridiculous, you haven’t ruined my evening,” Varric assured her. “You needed to talk, and hey, that’s what I’m here for.”

“I used to be much more fun than this,” she whispered into her drink.

Varric laid his hand on her shoulder. “You’ll find your fun again,” he said. “But if I were you, I’d go sleep the drink off. You’re starting to smell like Bull.”

Ellana smiled, and then just as quickly, her expression turned pensive. “I promised Blackwall I would stop by tonight, said he wanted to talk.”

“When you see him, tell him I haven’t forgotten about the Diamondback Game.” The dwarf held up his mug for the bartender to see. It was time for a refill.

“Will do.” Ellana dropped some coins for Cabot’s tip. “I will talk to you tomorrow.”

“You know where I will be,” he replied. The truth, as much as he hated to admit it, was that he hoped the Inquisitor wouldn’t return for another romance pep talk any time soon. Ellana’s relationship with Solas was too similar to his own dysfunctional relationship with Bianca. The last thing he needed was a constant reminder of how painful it was to live without the woman he loved. The dwarf waved as the Inquisitor headed for the door.

Ellana stepped out of the tavern into the cold night. She pulled the cloak hood over her head and burrowed deeper into the velvet material. The guards acknowledged her with a nod as she passed, a sign of respect that still caught her off guard three years later. It had taken Ellana over a year to get used to the idea that the humans served to protect her when, in the past, the best she could hope for during an encounter with humans was not to be shot on sight. Being the Inquisitor had its perks and its drawbacks—namely being called a flat ear by her ex fiancé. It didn’t matter to Arden that circumstance had thrown her into the role of Inquisitor, that it wasn’t of her choosing. The Keeper had apologized on behalf of Arden, but it had felt like a hollow gesture. Valora, her grandmother, had made it clear that she couldn’t be more proud of Ellana’s accomplishments, even if her parents were not. That alone did little to reassure the Inquisitor that the clan still considered her a member, and perhaps, she decided, that was for the best. The knowledge she possessed after two years spent with the Inquisition made it abundantly clear that she would find it difficult to live among her people again. Meeting Mythal, the sentinels, Solas—who could walk away from those experiences, back into a life where people celebrated and defined themselves by a history that they did not understand?

Ellana noted the stables were dimly lit. Blackwall usually had a fire raging on any given night, and she wondered if he had decided to go to bed.

“Hello?” There was no sign of her friend. “Blackwall?”

A low moaning sound near the back of the stable caught her attention. Ellana followed the noise to its source worried that a stray animal may have found its way into the grounds of Skyhold. The investigation turned out to be something she soon regretted. Blackwall’s bare rear could clearly be seen in the light of a lantern, and beneath him, in the throes of passion, lay Flissa. The Inquisitor crept out of the stables as quietly as she had entered. When she reached the top of the rampart, she began to laugh.

“That was unexpected,” she whispered. “I suppose Flissa serves the Inquisition in many capacities.”

It reminded Ellana of her first intimate encounter years ago. Keeper Deshanna had wanted her to spend time with Arden before accepting him as a bond mate to ensure they were compatible. Arden had invited her to go hunting so she could see him in action, as if that alone should be the sole measure of whether he would make a good husband or not. Against her better judgment, Ellana had agreed, and so, they set out at the break of dawn to hunt down some poor unsuspecting animals in the woods. After an hour of waiting in the bushes for a deer, Arden had bored, and Ellana became the unwilling prey. In hindsight, Ellana wished she had not agreed to the hunting trip, but she had never been one to say no to the keeper and she knew her parents wanted the relationship to work. To this day she had yet to tell her family or anyone in the clan that she had been raped, and she supposed it was for the best. Who would they believe? The woman who ended up spending two years with humans or the hunter who reliably provided food?

Ellana stared up at the stars. They always made her feel lonely, but she took comfort in knowing that no matter where Solas lay his head, they still shared the same night sky. A single tear fell onto her hand as she contemplated what he might be doing. She wiped it away before others followed its path.

“I need to let you go. You’re not coming back.”

The Inquisitor bowed her head and walked along the ramparts until she reached the door to the rotunda. Over the months, it had become routine for her to visit Solas in his study. Often, he would be so captivated by his studies that he would forget to meet her for the evening meal. Ellana always brought him a plate and a glass of wine, and he always seemed surprised that she had thought of him.

Inside the rotunda, she noticed a few tranquil mages on the level above, but it looked as if everyone else had turned in for the night. Dorian, she suspected, had found his way to Bull’s room, or vice versa, and Leliana was usually in her bedroom by now or gossiping with Josephine in the hall.

The rainbow colored throw Ellana had knitted Solas to keep him warm during late night reading sessions, was folded neatly over the back of the sofa. She ran her hand over the throw and the soft cotton fiber reminded her how silly the grim and fatalistic man had looked wrapped in bright colors. A smile formed and wilted away as she began to cry. Ellana laid down on the sofa and pulled the throw over her body, and she wept long into the night, until sleep came, and swept her to the Beyond.


	3. It Begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Orlesians are so much fun to write. Hope you enjoy the chapter.

“Inquisitor?”

Ellana felt a hand on her shoulder. Eventually her eyes opened and Josephine’s face came into view. The overdressed Antivan was standing next to the sofa, clipboard in hand, trying very hard not to look annoyed.

“What?” Ellana pulled herself up into a sitting position. The night spent sleeping on the small sofa had hurt her neck and stiffened her muscles. She swished her tongue around in her mouth to alleviate the dryness. “I can’t believe I slept on this undersized sofa—and my mouth… Creators, what is that taste?”

“You snore too!” exclaimed a voice from above. Dorian was grinning down at her from the first level of the rotunda. “Why did you buy an expensive bed again?”

“Dorian...”

“Yes, my dear grumpy Inquisitor?”

“...go find a templar to annoy.”

Dorian chuckled. To the Inquisitor’s annoyance, he continued to lean over the railing and gawk. It was her hair that had him fascinated since it redefined the laws of gravity.

“My lady, there are some matters that require your attention,” Josephine informed her. The ambassador shifted her weight uneasily while she assessed the Inquisitor. “I would suggest you freshen first and then meet me in the main hall.”

Ellana ran a hand through her tousled hair. “I’m not the embodiment of perfection after a night spent cramped on Solas’s seating?”

“If I may be blunt… it looks as if you have been dragged through Skyhold by a three-legged horse.” Josephine managed a polite smile. “I mean no offense, of course.”

“None taken.” Ellana stood and stretched. If Josephine wanted her in the main hall it either meant someone was to be called into judgment or they had received an important visitor. Neither was welcomed. “I will try to make myself presentable.”

Josephine stepped in front of the Inquisitor. As any good ambassador, she knew it was important that Ellana kept up appearances, whether she liked it or not. “May I suggest you make use of Lady Vivienne’s quarters to freshen? It would not do for the court to see you so... ”

“Disheveled?” Ellana answered with a smirk. The idea of presiding over a trial looking like she had a few drinks too many and a good time the night before would have been a legendary achievement in her mind. Of course, Josephine would never let it happen. No, the good ambassador would burn the great hall to the ground before decorum would be trivialized in such a way.

Josephine gently punctuated her reply with her quill. “Precisely.” 

Another dance with Florianne sounded more appealing than asking Vivienne to borrow a hairbrush and mirror. The last visit to the First Enchanter’s boudoir was a memory Ellana could not shake. Vivienne had insisted on painting her face and telling stories of her time in the Orlesian court while sculpting her nails into a weird shape. Those things alone she could tolerate, and on a good day pretend to enjoy, but the eyebrow plucking had been the step too far. Nothing was worth that sort of discomfort.

“If you could bring me a hand mirror and brush, I would be in your debt, Ambassador.” Ellana smiled sweetly. “I do not want to trouble anyone.”

“Of course, Inquisitor.” Josephine was all too aware that Ellana did not like Vivienne’s fashion advice and beauty treatments, and that is exactly why she had suggested it. It was revenge for finding the Inquisitor in what she considered a less than appropriate sleeping arrangement. “I will have someone fetch a change of clothing as well.”

Josephine bowed her head and departed. When the door closed, Ellana sighed. Two years later and Skyhold still had yet to feel like home. There was no picking small clothes out of unruly places, eating with your hands, running around in nightclothes or lounging outside of the bedroom. Courtly life was at odds with her provincial Dalish upbringing. It made her feel like a caged bird trained to squawk on command when she could think of nothing better than flying the coop.

Courtly life aside, Ellana would be the first to admit that the Inquisition had turned out to be a worthy and righteous endeavor regardless of how she felt about Andraste and the Chantry. They had helped people, righted wrongs, saved the world, and formed a united group from many colorful backgrounds. There were times, like now, when she reflected on the last two years and their accomplishments, that she was proud of how far they had come since their humble beginnings in Haven. 

The rotunda door opened, and the sudden noise startled Ellana. Josephine had returned with fresh clothes, a hairbrush, and a mirror. A worker followed behind the ambassador carrying a basin of warm water.

“I will instruct those on the floors above to avert their eyes.” Josephine looked up at the people mulling around the library. “You should have privacy while you wash and change.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Ellana waved the concern away. Privacy was still a new concept. Travelling with the clan meant the necessities of life were performed whether you were in a forested area or out on the open plain. “I have become an expert at washing and dressing without exposing my most intimate parts,” she assured Josephine. “It’s a talent.”

Josephine’s face brightened and her cheeks suddenly blushed. “If you are certain, Inquisitor,” she stammered. “I will leave you to freshen.” Josephine bowed her head and hurriedly made for the door. Ellana loved coaxing a reaction out of Josephine when the moment was right. 

“You enjoyed embarrassing our rather chaste ambassador,” Dorian said once the door had shut. “You cruel woman,” he teased.

Ellana smiled up at him. “We all must find our amusement somehow.”

“It’s good to see you smile.” Dorian opened a book and skimmed the pages to give Ellana a modicum of privacy. “Just don’t hurt yourself doing it,” he said, sounding smug.

Ellana washed her chest and underarms while keeping her breasts hidden from view with her shirt. “I will exercise caution when using my cheek muscles.”

Dorian snapped the book shut. The sudden sound echoed throughout the rotunda, annoying those who were actually trying to read. “Do you think it’s too early for a drink?”

“No, never,” she answered. “But maybe you should wait until the midday meal so I can join you.”

“I will hold you to that, Inquisitor.” Dorian twiddled the end of his mustache while contemplating which alcoholic beverage they should consume in abundance. “We need something—I don’t know—suitably expensive and hard-to-come-by in preparation for our afternoon tryst.”

Ellana rolled her eyes at the word _tryst_. “How romantic,” she said dryly. “I cannot wait to spend my meal in the presence of a very loud, drunken Dorian.”

“I bet you can hardly contain yourself.” Dorian began to rummage through the library shelves to the dismay of the tranquil mages searching for books. “Now... where did I put those brandy glasses?”

While Ellana continued to wash, she made certain not to flash her tits at any mage, templar, or worse, her spymaster. Leliana was soon to be the most holy person in Thedas according to the humans. It was a strange thought, considering how many people Leliana had murdered while working for the Inquisition, but Ellana tried not to judge... too much. Human ways were not her ways; they were simply odd.

Today, Ellana decided it was the perfect day for her hair to be long and flowing. It also covered the unsightly scratch on her cheek. She brushed the legendary bed-head away, swearing every time she hit a knot, and after it was detangled, a few braids were added for interest before calling it done. 

“Inquisitor?” Josephine asked. 

“Come in,” Ellana replied. “I’m decent.”

“That’s debatable,” Dorian quipped. The sight of the Inquisitor’s annoyed eyebrow made him retreat further into the library.

Josephine entered the room, clipboard in hand, quill at the ready. She stopped and inspected the Inquisitor making certain to circle around her once. The young elven woman excelled at attracting stains. “My lady, there is a matter that requires your attention. It concerns Commander René Eugène Bouchard.”

“Dorian!” Ellana shouted at the floor above. “I have to go deal with some pompous Orlesian! I will meet you afterwards!”

Josephine silently prayed to the Maker that the Orlesians in the main hall had not overheard the Inquisitor’s comment. The Dalish elf had proven unruly since their first meeting in Haven. She was stubborn, opinionated, sassy, and often late to meetings, but regardless, no one could fault her stout heart or uncanny ability to save the world. In the beginning, Josephine had enjoyed the challenge of convincing people that a Dalish elf could be the Herald of Andraste. The reality of such an endeavor had challenged Josephine at every step, sometimes backing her into a corner and forcing her to use every bit of ingenuity to find solutions to earth shattering problems. In the end, after two long years of politics, financial family troubles, and dodging death, she was exhausted. The last three months had provided Josephine with the break she had needed a year ago and given her time with family and friends. Now she hoped that the current problem awaiting the Inquisitor in the main hall would not spiral out of control and start a new conflict. 

Dorian appeared above, leaning slightly over the railing, holding two brandy glasses and a decanter tucked under his arm. “If it’s all the same to you, I would very much like to watch you feather-pluck another member of the puffed up Orlesian establishment. Two ticks and I will be down,” he replied. “And before you ask, I have not started drinking without you.”

“I wasn’t going to ask.” Ellana smirked. “But I know you've been sipping, Dorian.”

Dorian quickly descended the spiral staircase to meet up with Ellana in the painted room. Judgement day was always his favorite day especially if it involved Orlesians. “So what’s this I hear about a commander?”

“I believe it would be best to let Ser Bouchard explain,” Josephine answered stiffly. Ellana knew that tone. A major problem was brewing in the main hall, the kind that required a sword and a Dalish elf with an attitude. “Inquisitor… I must warn you that you may find what he has to say rather distressing.”

“Why? What has happened?” Ellana’s first thought had been for Solas, but that idea was quickly dismissed. The issue with Solas would have been handled privately with only the war council present. This… was a different kind of beast. Public displays like this meant important people needed to be seen and heard by the court otherwise the nobles would claim the ruling to be unfair, especially if it were a noble head on the block. In truth, the nobles enjoyed the drama and the theatrics most defendants provided while facing judgment. 

“In this case... it would be best if you come with me.” Josephine gestured for Ellana and Dorian to follow. Before Josephine opened the door, she paused and addressed the Inquisitor once more. “Remember to breathe.”

Dealing with the Orlesians had never been a pleasant experience. Ellana had heard tales of Orlesian hunting parties shooting Dalish elves for sport, but thankfully, her clan had never been on the receiving end. Since her promotion to Inquisitor, she had dealt with a multitude of Orlesian problems; some political, some personal, most deadly. Other than their scrumptious tiny cakes, she hated Orlais.

Ellana entered the great hall to find every seat full. The people rose out of respect as she made her way down the red carpet to her throne. She had always hated this part. It was the constant scrutiny, the judgmental looks, the nobles whispering and tittering at her expense that put her off, and as if that weren’t enough, there were the admirers, those who smiled salaciously her way and sometimes winked and “accidentally” bumped into her. Dorian loved it when it happened, especially when it was a minor nobleman trying his luck. He always took the opportunity to wink back, saying it was on behalf of Ellana, when she knew damn well it was he who was testing the waters. These so called admirers were opportunists at heart, men and women who wanted to use the Inquisitor to advance their own political ambitions and line their pockets. Ellana had helped elect the next Divine, she had connections all over Thedas, and what she lacked in political might, she made up for in gold. _Goldhold_ was the nickname merchants had given Skyhold a year ago when the mountain roads were filled with pilgrims, and wagons poured into the gates at all hours. With that kind of reputation percolating through most of Southern Thedas, attracting parasites had just been a matter of time.

If the Inquisition allowed it, Dorian would happily pull a chair up next to Ellana’s or better still, request his own throne to be placed by her throne. He was certain Ellana would be in favor, but he was also equally certain the advisors or some boring Chantry Mother would object. For now, he would stand at the front next to Varric in a position that allowed him to clearly see the proceedings. The dwarf, he noticed, was busily taking notes. 

“What is this about, Varric?” Dorian whispered. “Did someone borrow Ser Bouchard’s favorite mask and forget to return it?”

Varric chuckled, but his quill never stopped. “Sparkler, if what I’ve heard whispered is true, we are in for one hell of a show. You might want to find some cover.”

“Does this concern Solas?” Dorian asked. “Is he here?” The mage glanced around the room, but there were no bald heads to be found. “Why won’t you tell me?”

Varric smiled up at Dorian. “Because I want to see your reaction,” he explained. “If I tell you, it will ruin the moment that you discover what has everyone’s knickers in a twist.”

Dorian folded his arms over his chest. “Can you at least give me a hint?”

“Keep your trousers on, Sparkler, and enjoy the show.” 

Josephine bowed her head to Ellana and the whispers and murmurings died away. The ambassador turned to address the court, specifically a highly decorated Orlesian soldier and two of his archers standing front and center.

“Inquisitor, allow me to introduce Commander René Eugène Bouchard.” Josephine bowed her head to the commander and gestured to him with both hands as if she were presenting the Inquisitor with a great gift. The Orlesians loved pomp and they would get it. “He fought alongside the Inquisition’s forces in the Arbor Wilds.” Ellana bowed her head. Orlesian or not, he had served in the Inquisition’s war against Corypheus and that was worthy of respect. “Commander Bouchard is here today to explain why he would not hand over a prisoner-of-war to the Inquisition.”

Ellana shifted forward and considered the commander. Ser Bouchard was a vision of pure showmanship, a mountain of a man clad in silver armor that was so highly polished she could clearly see her skewed reflection in his chest plate, and that wasn’t even his most impressive feature. The commander’s tall helm was at least the length of Ellana’s arm, if not taller, topped with a thin arrowhead shaped diamond. It was without a doubt, the most ridiculous piece of equipment she had thus far seen on a chevalier. But it was not surprising in the least since peacockery was the Orlesian way of life. 

The commander stepped forward and bowed to Ellana. He was all teeth and moustache when he smiled, his Van Dyke beard obscuring the shape of his mouth. “Your worship, it is an honor to meet you at last. I did not have the privilege to do so when our troops were entrenched in the Arbor Wilds.”

Ellana bowed her head again. The words _compensating for something_ continued to niggle at her thoughts as she looked at the lengthy helm, unfortunately, the visitor carried far too much favor with the Orlesian court to risk being rude. “Welcome to Skyhold, Ser Bouchard.” She tactfully smiled. “Should I assume you did not come all this way to chat?”

“No, my lady,” he replied, a hint of humor ringing through. “Although I do not regret the opportunity to make your acquaintance, it was not my intention to deviate my troops so far from our intended destination. Your people insisted I bring my prisoner here to face your judgment.”

One of Leliana’s scouts broke through a crowd of Orlesian dandies to reach the Inquisitor. A small Elven woman with vibrant red hair fell on one knee in front of the throne. “Forgive me, your worship, I am scout Nessa, and I have been tracking the commander and his men for a week. We requested that the prisoner be handed over into our custody, but they ignored us.”

Now it was getting interesting, like it always did once the Orlesian pomp and circumstance was out of the way and people said what they meant. “Why did you refuse, Ser Bouchard?” Ellana asked him. “The Inquisition and Orlais were allied against Corypheus, were we not?”

The commander nodded his head and took a deep breath. “Under normal circumstances, I would not have hesitated, but, your worship, this affair is personal.” The commander gestured to one of his archers. “The prisoner murdered several of my men. Had your people not hounded us at every step, this matter would never have come before you.”

“I know my people, commander,” Ellana strongly rebutted. An uneasy feeling began to settle in the pit of her stomach. “They would not hound you without reason, therefore, I should like to hear your testimony.”

Commander Bouchard’s posture straightened. It was obvious by his tone that he resented having to explain his motives. “As you wish, my lady,” he said. “During our campaign in the Arbor Wilds, we were attacked by not only Red Templars but strange elves. My men had secured a group of these elves at great cost.”

“I am shocked you were able to capture any of the sentinels.” Ellana appeared genuinely surprised. _And why would he capture them? I know the sentinels were rather dedicated to their duty, but Cullen said the sentinels stopped attacking once we allied with them._ “I must ask, why did you take them prisoner?”

“It is true, they were formidable for such a small number. That is why I had decided that it might prove beneficial to interrogate any caught alive. It was my hope we might learn what awaited inside the temple.” Ser Bouchard paced a few steps and turned on his heel to face the Inquisitor. “Unfortunately, they could or would not communicate with any of our people. My men and I were simply doing our part to ensure your victory, Inquisitor.”

Scout Nessa pointed an angry finger at the commander. “You tortured them!” she yelled. There were several gasps from the Orlesian women present. They fanned themselves faster as they gossiped. “We found their bodies stripped and beaten.”

“Torture?” Ellana’s voice betrayed her shock and rising anger. “Ser Bouchard, you are aware that the Inquisition does not, nor will it ever condone torture. Please tell me what I am hearing from my scout isn’t true. They were our allies, for Creator’s sake!”

The commander glanced at the two archers who had been allowed to accompany him into the keep. Ellana hoped it was for support and not a silent message to start a bloodbath in Skyhold’s main hall. “It was war, Inquisitor. While you dallied in the temple, they attacked our men.”

An unhappy picture of what had happened in the Arbor Wilds was beginning to unfold, one that explained why her scouts had deemed it necessary to bring Ser Bouchard and his men to Skyhold.

“Dallied? Ellana rose suddenly from her throne, angered by his flippant remark. “I suppose one might think that fighting an army of men with red crystals coming out of their skulls was a fun time, but trust me when I say none of us would be sitting here today if I had not dallied in the damn temple!” 

Ser Bouchard began to pace. “We needed help. We were dying.” The commander bowed his head and shook it slowly, pained by whatever memory he was reliving. “There was so much death.”

There was something off about the commander. Ellana sat back down on her throne to help ease the tension in the main hall. Two of the Inquisition guards had already reached for their swords twice, and their hands still lingered near their hilts. “Why were the sentinels not released once the alliance was announced?” she asked Bouchard.

“We needed answers and it seemed that they refused to speak,” Ser Bouchard stated and he looked upwards to the top of the stained glass window behind Ellana with outstretched arms. “They could not hear the song, Inquisitor!”

“Oh shit,” Varric muttered to Dorian. “I’ve heard this kind of crazy talk before. Seems Ser Bourchard and his men got a bit too close to the red lyrium.”

“Normally, I’d attribute his wild ranting to him being Orlesian, but something is clearly not right,” Dorian whispered . “What do we do?”

Varric sighed. “If we make a move his men might make one too, so we wait and hope the Inquisitor can diffuse this before it turns into a real shit show. ”

“There was mention of a prisoner.” Ellana pretended to look around the hall, when in actuality, she was making eye contact with Dorian, Varric, and Leliana. “Could I speak with this person, commander?”

Ser Bouchard nodded and signaled to his man at the keep door. A chevalier strolled into the main hall holding a chain and at the end of the chain was a metal collar, and wearing it, was the leader of the sentinels, Abelas. The ancient elf’s face was bruised and swollen, and one eye was firmly shut. His once tarnished golden armor was now dented and encrusted with blood.

The commander pointed a finger at Ellana. “I was simply doing my part to ensure your victory, Inquisitor!” he screamed. 

Ellana’s grip on her throne tightened. There was something very wrong with the commander, and from the look of his men, they too were suffering from the same malady. The chevalier that held Abelas’s leash was covered in mud, his face barely visible under the muck and matted facial hair, and his eyes were wide and wild looking.

The Inquisitor noted that there were four visible chevaliers, but she suspected more lurked in the shadows. 

“I would like to address the prisoner, Ser Bouchard,” Ellana said. The current situation was delicate. The last thing she wanted was to make any sudden movements. It was strange how the commander raved like a lunatic, yet still displayed civility. _Only an Orlesian_ , she thought. Ellana walked from her throne in soft, measured steps to Abelas, hoping that her spymaster and friends had her back. A trickle of dust caught her eye. It was a sign someone was standing on the balcony overlooking the main hall. She prayed that it was a friend, not foe.

“Andaran atish’an, Abelas,” Ellana said softly to the ancient elf. He nodded in recognition. “Ir abelas, Hahren.”

Abelas held out his bound hands. “Halani.”

Ellana touched his bindings with her index finger and froze them. 

“He was bait,” Commander Bouchard said to Ellana. “Your men,” he pointed to scout Nessa, “they pursued us night and day because they knew it would please you. But he...” Bouchard bowed his head towards Abelas and chuckled, “...was a ploy, a little diversion to get to you, Inquisitor.”

There was a flash of gold and the chevalier holding Abelas’s leash dropped to the floor. The court gasped at the sight of the dead man’s twisted neck. People screamed and two Orlesian women fainted. “Run!” someone shouted and a stampede erupted as the crowd made for the keep door. 

“Holy shit!” Varric yelled. “Did the elf just kill someone?” He glanced down at the lifeless chevalier and noted the severity of the death blow. “Reminds me of Broody’s grand entrance back in Kirkwall, but with less blood.”

Abelas used his magic to shatter the metal collar around his neck. The ancient elf wove his way through an oncoming herd of people, making certain to keep his eyes glued to Ser Bouchard. Bouchard was pushing people out of his way, forging a path through bodies to reach the Inquisitor. As soon as Bouchard was within spitting distance of Ellana, the commander lowered his head and charged. Ellana stood staring at the ridiculous sight, thinking she would forever be known as the woman who was skewered by the most ostentatious helm to ever have been crafted in Thedas. A glint of gold caught Ellana’s eye and she watched Abelas lunge from the crowd and tackle Ser Bouchard. 

Leliana and the Inquisition soldiers engaged the Orlesian archers before they could take aim. It was then, while all eyes were on the fight, that Ellana noticed a slight movement in the shadows near her throne. Two fireballs sprouted from Ellana’s hands. She took her first shot and it scorched her throne, but the second shot hit the mark and sent the assassin running. She felt triumphant until she noticed the bow in the assassin’s hand and the arrow pointed at her head. An arrow flew passed—she leapt—it grazed her cheek before she could jump out of the way. She landed hard on the stone floor, her hands and elbows grazed and bloodied. Ellana rolled onto her stomach and retaliated with a wave of ice spikes. The assassin tried to outmaneuver the magic but he had lost his cover and was too exposed. Ellana finished by casting a magical stone fist. It hit the assassin squarely in the chest knocking him off of his feet. He fell to the floor, and did not move.

Varric ran to Ellana’s side with crossbow in hand and took aim at the assassin. “You okay, Inquisitor?” 

Ellana ignored the question and focused her attention on Abelas and Bouchard. Abelas had the commander backed against a wall. The ancient elf was holding a large fireball in one hand and pointing a long slender golden finger at Bouchard with the other. She knew that posture and his intent. The sentinel was daring the commander to move so he could end him, not that she could blame him, but they needed the bastard alive for questioning. She ran to the ancient elf and slid in front of him. Abelas huffed at the back of her head.

“Surrender,” Ellana said to Bouchard. “If you do, I will spare your life.”

Commander Bouchard laughed in her face. “Anaris sends his regards, Inquisitor.” A small flask dropped to the ground. It shattered, and from the pooling liquid, two vaporous green tendrils rose. The magic seeped into the Inquisitor’s eyes before she was able to erect a magical barrier around her body. A second later, she fell to the floor screaming in agony.

Abelas threw the fireball he had been holding at Commander Bouchard’s face. The commander bellowed in agony, holding his head in his hands and writhing against the wall. Abelas grabbed the commander by the throat, and in that moment, through the burning flames their eyes met. “Anaris’enaste,” Bouchard managed to breathe out. Abelas raised his head a little higher, high enough to peer down his nose at Bouchard.“Mythal’enaste,” he said, defiant. The conversation finished with the crushing of the Orlesian’s throat. 

When it was certain the commander would not rise again, Abelas turned his attention to the Inquisitor. He knew, without any doubt, that she was now blind.


	4. There is No Shame in Sorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gave the Inquisitor a generic description on purpose since it is a personal choice in the game.
> 
> Durgen’len- child of the stone, dwarf  
> Ir abelas - I'm sorry  
> Hahren - elder  
> Ma serannas- thank you  
> Dareth Shiral - safe journey or bye

_Fate has not been kind._

_To be here, Tarasyl’an Te’las, Skyhold as spoken in the common tongue, the very place where the Dread Wolf erected his veil... it has deepened my sorrow, and I have nothing now, not one in my company who understands the world as I do, save the Dread Wolf and his ilk and it is not enough. Perhaps that is the price we both pay for our failures._

_The shemlen walk upon this ground unaware, disconnected, and at odds with a world they barely understand and yet claim mastery over. I am privy to their petty conflicts, their ever changing whims, foolish in thought, prideful in action—ignorant. I will not indulge their curiosity. I have purpose here beyond the Dread Wolf’s agenda and Anaris’s anarchy. Three moons ago the Dread Wolf entered the temple and proclaimed that Mythal still endures. I believe him. If my goddess would pity this wretched soul and look upon me with a kind eye, She may yet call on me, although I fear my usefulness ended the day the Well of Knowledge was despoiled by she who I must protect now, this… Inquisitor. The shame and the degradation of this task, it is a fitting yoke I am burdened to carry. If the world were just I would be bound and ended._

_But, alas, I endure._

Abelas returned to his body and awoke. The day was new, the sun had risen an hour ago, not that it was obvious. Three hours would pass before daylight would hit the frozen walls of Skyhold and it would take another three to actually feel any warmth from it. The bleak weather made him yearn for the overgrown Arbor Wilds, the home he had known for most of his immortal life; a place comfortably warm all year round, and full of natural wonder.

A week had passed now since his arrival. A week spent awake in the company of mortals, away from his beloved sentinels. A week of odd glances and even odder questions and requests. It had been a daunting experience for an elf who had been shut away in a temple since the fall of Arlathan, and he doubted it would soon get any easier.

After the fight with Bouchard in the main hall, Abelas had been escorted to his quarters by a burly man almost his height, clean shaven, soft spoken yet direct when appropriate. They had talked little along the way. That had pleased Abelas. He hated the human habit of speaking for no other reason than to hear one’s own voice. Commander Bouchard and his men had tried every ounce of his patience with their incessant talk of women, men, food, and wine. 

The room itself had been an unexpected luxury, richly decorated, bathed in ornate linens and furs, and thankfully clean. At the center, a well-tended fire warmed the quarters to a cozy temperature and an occasional chair nearby invited a person to sit and enjoy it. The bed was large, constructed of seasoned oak and ornamented with carvings of various animals. But the material comforts paled in comparison to the sight of a bowl of grapes on a small end table. The fruit had tempted him with the promise of a taste he had not experienced in a millennium and the first bite had not disappointed.

The commander of the Inquisition’s forces had explained Skyhold’s code of conduct and apologized personally for the mistreatment Abelas had received at the hands of supposed allies. Abelas had taken it in his stride. A week of starvation, physical, and mental abuse was over, and he would die fighting before it would happen again. Now he needed to move forward to the problem of Anaris.

Abelas had searched the Fade for signs of Anaris. Only the ancient memories of Tarasyl’an Te’las were present. Instead of visiting those remnants of history, he called upon a spirit of Empathy, a very rare and powerful spirit, he had befriended long ago. The spirit could offer little in the way of advice, but it assured him that there were ripples in the Fade of old powers rising; voices long forgotten were starting to speak once more. Abelas knew the spirit spoke of the Dread Wolf and the Forgotten Ones.

At the beginning of the week, Abelas had been approached by many people, especially some of the Dalish living at Skyhold. He ignored their requests to speak, often walking away before they could finish their sentences. Eventually, everyone kept their distance—except one. A female Durgen’len was determined to try his patience at every available opportunity. The words from her mouth were nonsense—samples, experiments, tests, measurements. He was not a thing to be poked and prodded for a dwarf’s amusement. When Abelas could no longer withstand her continual probing, he retired to his quarters, making certain to slam the door in her face. Hours later, when a messenger arrived with a summons, Abelas opened the door to find the dwarf still hovering outside. 

Abelas donned his torn cloak and stopped to address her once they were face to thigh. “You are not to follow me,” he commanded. “Do you understand?”

The Dwarven woman looked up at him with a smile that begged for just a moment of his time. Before a word was spoken, Abelas could already tell she had not heeded his warning. “Please, just a small sample of your cloak or... a hair, fingernail... I’ll take anything.”

Abelas pointed at her and growled _no_. Surely that would be the end of it. But she proved to be as stubborn as he was grumpy, and she followed him full stride towards the main hall.

She struggled to keep pace. “My name is Dagna. I’m the arcanist here at Skyhold.”

The elf stopped. He turned, saw no one, and then remembered that he was addressing a dwarf. “Durgen’len have magic at their disposal in this age? I believed that ability…” he hesitated, “...nevermind.” Abelas awaited her answer with rapt interest.

Dagna wished she could say yes. It was the first time he had actually taken an interest in anything she had said. “Uh… no,” she replied, worrying her hands together. “But... I have studied magic extensively and I can create masterworks and runes.”

Abelas wasn’t cruel. He could see this was important to the young dwarf. “I fail to understand why you ask me repeatedly for items off my person. How would it improve your craft?”

Dagna racked her brain for the best way to explain her interest in his ancient clothing. “When I found out that an elf from Arlathan was here at Skyhold, I just had to meet you. Elven items of that age are extremely rare and their construction is far superior to anything we have today. So I thought, what if I take some samples of your cloak and armor and learn how they are constructed? I could make a new schematic for the Inquisitor or possibly strengthen her armor.”

Abelas considered the dwarf. The explanation had impressed him, but he wasn’t going to let her know that. “Why would I allow you to tinker with the remaining sacred remnants of my life?”

That was a fair question, one Dagna had expected him to ask several days ago. “I only need a small piece of your cloak and armor.” She held up her hand and looked through the gap she had created between her forefinger and thumb. “One tiny piece.” Her eyes squinted in anticipation, certain he was going to yell at her again.

Abelas continued to stare at the dwarf long after she had finished speaking. Dagna fidgeted under the scrutiny. Those golden eyes of his had a way of making her feel like he could pierce her very soul if he wanted. “Bring me your finest crafted item. If I am impressed, I will acquiesce to your request.” Before the dwarf could thank him, Abelas added: “If I am unimpressed, you are to leave me in peace.”

“Oh, thank you!” Dagna was tempted to hug his thigh. This was a once in a lifetime chance, a dream come true for a dwarf who had dedicated her life to the understanding of magic. “You won’t regret it. I’ll get to work right now.”

The dwarf walked away, almost skipping as she entered the doors of Skyhold. Abelas had to admit that he was curious to see what she would create, if it would even warrant a second glance. Regardless, he was not going to hand over items that he considered sacred to placate someone’s curiosity. He had to be convinced that his contribution would be respected and used to craft a useful item.

He entered the keep of Skyhold to find two more Durgen’len seemingly fascinated by his presence. Slave markings marred the face of one, and the other, he recognized from the Temple of Mythal. Did the Inquisitor collect them? Abelas was approached by a human woman before he could consider the dwarf’s significance, if in fact, there was any. The woman was tall, slender, and walked with a grace he rarely saw from a human. When she spoke, it was with the same accent as the men who had captured him.

“You are Abelas, correct?” she asked in a singsong voice. Her eyes roamed over him once. “I am Leliana. I am sorry we did not get a chance to speak sooner, but as I’m sure you are aware, the week has been a rather difficult one.” She gestured toward a door.

Abelas walked by her side through the main hall. A group of overdressed men whispered in their direction as they passed. Idle gossip was something Abelas always chose to ignore, but by the looks on the men’s faces he suspected that _he_ was the topic of conversation. As they continued their rather slow walk through the keep, Abelas realized Leliana was giving him an opening to speak. There was nothing he wanted to say. Unlike most mortals, he preferred to observe rather than speak until his thoughts were fully formed. While in the service of Mythal, words were chosen carefully and after contemplation before one dared to speak in the temple. Every action, word, and reaction was considered a reflection on the goddess. To be careless was sacrilege; to obtain her favor was everything.

Leliana opened the door for Abelas. She gestured with a smile and a flick of her head that he was to enter first. It may have been a kind act on her part, but for him, it was distasteful. Doors were opened for the honored, not the watchful.

Inside the room, the commander of the Inquisition was pacing in front of a large desk. He was agitated, silently cursing under his breath with the belief no one could hear, but Abelas’s elven ears heard every word. Behind the desk, a woman dressed in gold sat smiling up at him. 

Josephine had wanted to get a closer look at the mysterious elf from the Temple of Mythal since his arrival. Now that she had her chance, she noticed how different he looked compared to the elves she had always known. He was going to attract an incredible amount of attention as word of him spread, and she wondered how best to use it to the Inquisition’s advantage.

“They were our allies!” Cullen shouted. The unhappy commander ran a hand through his immaculate hair. “It’s my fault she was attacked. I should have posted more guards.”

Leliana stepped forward. “No-one could have foreseen these events,” she soothed. “Right now, what we need are answers.”

“What about the Inquisitor?” Cullen asked reluctantly. It pained him to know her condition. “How is Ellana?” The commander noticed the intrigued glances of his fellow advisors. It was the first time in their turbulent two year relationship that he had addressed the Inquisitor by her first name. Regardless of their past differences, Cullen was genuinely worried for Ellana. The incident had happened under his watch, and that not only angered him, but it had made it personal. 

Josephine grabbed a piece of parchment from her desk and handed it to Cullen. “This is the surgeon’s report. Other than the blindness, she has suffered only minor injuries.”

“Blind,” Cullen echoed. “Do we even know what Bouchard threw at her?” The commander directed his anger towards the new arrival. “And you—Abelas— I believe that’s your name, why did you kill him? We needed answers.”

The ancient elf, who had taken a place near the fireplace, straightened upon being named. His eyes narrowed. “It was better that he die than remain a threat.”

“We still have the assassin in our custody, and he is lucid,” Leliana interjected. The anger Cullen had directed towards Abelas she felt was unfair. “However, I do not think he was with Ser Bouchard and his men when they captured Abelas.”

“He was not,” Abelas confirmed.

Josephine smiled cautiously at the elf. Over the years, she had dealt with kings, queens, traders, merchant princes, even assassins. This was unknown territory. “If you would be so kind, Master Abelas, could you tell us what happened and how you came to be in Ser Bouchard’s custody?” 

“I asked for the release of my people,” Abelas stated in a stale tone. “I was refused.”

“Could you elaborate?” Leliana implored. “We need details, anything that will help us understand how these men were corrupted.”

“They were corrupted by their own ignorance,” he answered, bored and indifferent. “I suspect it is a common shortcoming among Shemlen.”

“Wonderful...” Cullen gestured towards Abelas. “We have an elf who has answers, but would rather insult us than provide them.”

Abelas took a step forward towards the commander. The height difference was enough that Cullen was forced to look up. “You insult yourselves and me by pretending you could, for one conceivable moment, understand the complexity of what now hunts the Inquisitor.” The sound of Abelas’s voice reverberated off of the walls. “I remain at Tarasyl’an Te’las in the company of mortals because I must.”

There were days when Cullen wondered why he bothered to get out of bed. “Don’t stay on our account.” The commander pointed to the door. “You are free to leave.”

“I do not stay on _your_ account,” Abelas retorted, striking the comment away with a swipe of his hand. “I stay to protect the Inquisitor. She possesses the knowledge of the Vir’abelasan and it is that which Anaris seeks. If it is acquired, it will be used to destroy what remains of my people.”

After years of observation, Leliana knew how to time her questions. Abelas was going to test her skills and patience, but she was determined to get answers. “Who or what is Anaris?” she asked.

“The God of Darkness and Decay,” Abelas replied. “He delights in death and pestilence. The Inquisitor was magically blinded like all of his followers so that she will forever look upon the darkness and know the face of Anaris.”

The advisors exchanged glances. It did not need to be said that they were, as faithful Andrastrians, trying to understand how an evil elven god fit into their religious view of the world. It was a matter the advisors would each have to reconcile on their own, or more likely, not at all.

“But why is this Anaris after the Herald of Andraste?” Josephine asked. “Was he an ally of Corypheus?”

“No,” Abelas stated, bluntly. “Anaris seeks vengeance for an old wound. The Inquisitor holds the magic of his enemy.” The revelation had, as Abelas expected, shocked the Shemlen. 

Leliana, being quick-minded, was the first to understand the ramifications of what had been said. A new picture of what had happened at the conclave was emerging, one she did not like. “The magic of _his_ enemy?” The dark tone in her voice alerted the other advisors to the seriousness of the situation. “And what enemy is this?”

There was a part of Abelas that took delight in unmasking the true owner of the magic, especially since that owner had been living right under their noses the whole time. The humans believed the Inquisitor to be sent by their god. Their arrogance was about to be rewarded. “The Dread Wolf,” Abelas stated. “Anaris seeks to destroy your Inquisitor out of a need for revenge and to gain the knowledge of the Vir’abelasan.”

“But the Dread Wolf is just a legend,” Josephine argued, the fragility in her words betraying her fear. “The Dalish do not consider him with much regard.”

Abelas looked into the ambassador’s bewildered eyes. “Legend is a tale born from truth,” he stated. His voice saddened as he continued to speak. “Much has been lost since the fall of Elvhenan.”

The room grew quiet while the Inquisition’s advisers digested the information. Leliana looked to Cullen, not for support, but to see his reaction. For the majority of her life she had been told secrets that would curl toes, but Josephine and Cullen, she felt, were in many respects, innocent. 

The commander huffed and looked to the ceiling. He rubbed his eyes a few times before turning his attention back to Abelas. “You expect us to believe that the Inquisitor received her mark from an elven deity?” Cullen shrugged his shoulders. He was angry, confused, and recent events had tried the last of his patience. “Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?”

Abelas rounded on him then, disgusted by his lack of respect for everything he held sacred. “You ask if I would dedicate my life to a fable? _Mortal_ _..._ ” he spat back at Cullen. “You cannot imagine the wonders I have seen nor the sorrow that fills me from their loss.”

“I’m sorry,” Cullen said, and he was ashamed. The Inquisition had challenged many of his beliefs from the beginning, and even though he had learned more tolerance while part of it, he still failed to fully appreciate other’s beliefs. “That was rude of me.”

“You are not the first who would not hear the truth, nor will you be the last,” Abelas conceded, a hint of sadness lingering in his words. What the humans believed did not concern him, but he wondered now if the Inquisitor would be receptive to the truth. “I shall take my leave.”

Leliana stepped in front of Abelas. “Wait. I must know if there is a way to help the Inquisitor.” There was genuine concern in her voice. “We have mages at our disposal. With your help...”

“The Vir’abelasan may have held the answer,” Abelas replied before she could continue to plead. “The Inquisitor should be consulted... there is nothing more that I can tell you.”

The ancient elf dipped his head to Leliana and walked from the ambassador’s room, relieved to be free from their company. The humans were as he expected; hasty, closed-minded, incapable of appreciating the intricacies history had woven into the present. They wanted answers that complied with their narrow view of the world. He would not oblige them, nor waste his breath fighting their preconceived ideas.

Abelas approached a guard stationed at the Inquisitor’s door. The young man eyed him up and down before finally making the decision to speak.

“Password,” asked the guard.

With some reluctance Abelas answered. “Pigs cannot fly.”

The guard opened the door and disappeared inside. Abelas studied the main hall while he waited for an answer. Tarasyl’an Te’las was no simple fortress. It was here that the Dread Wolf had erected his veil against the Evanuris using the magic of the titan below, and it was here that Mythal often visited during the last days of her life. Abelas had hated escort duty, mainly because of the snow, and Fen’Harel for convincing Mythal that Tarasyl’an Te’las’s remote location would ensure their privacy. The Dread Wolf had been wrong, not for the first time, and even though it no longer mattered, it still angered Abelas.

The guard emerged from the Inquisitor’s room. “You may enter, _elf_.”

The disdain with which the guard spoke the word _elf_ did not go unnoticed. Abelas made a mental note to address the attitude problem later in the Fade. It would provide entertainment while he waited to speak with the Dread Wolf.

Abelas bounded up the stairs to the Inquisitor’s room. The Inquisitor lay in bed sandwiched between two men. On one side of her lay a man with a peculiar mustache, and on the other, a younger man with a strange hat.

“Oh, it’s Sorrow,” said the boy in the strange hat. “Hello, my name is Cole.”

Abelas cocked his head to the side and raised a questioning eyebrow at the spirit. “You are not a human, yet you take the form of one.”

“Sharp, clever piercing eyes, like Solas, but not free. Not yet. An ancient husk waiting to open Beyond, in that place where Malani dwells alone,” Cole said.

“That is Cole’s way of saying hello and wishing you a nice day,” Ellana added in a whimsical voice. She leaned over and kissed the spirit on the cheek. “You get used to it.”

Cole rubbed the kiss away. “Can you do that again? It tickled.”

“You’re going to give him the wrong idea.” Dorian stretched and snuggled closer to Ellana. “Now pet me some more.” He eventually opened his eyes and gave Abelas a roaming assessment. “Care to join us?”

Abelas ignored the mage. His eyes focused on a picture of a badly drawn elf behind the Inquisitor’s desk; distinctly bald… it had to be Fen’Harel. “This was the one who accompanied you to the temple?”

Dorian smirked at the terrible representation of Solas. “Yes, that’s the one, but we don’t talk about him.”

The ancient elf ignored the man’s attempt to waylay the conversation. “Where is he?” 

“Solas is no longer with the Inquisition.” Dorian rose from the bed and walked to an open door to admire the view of the mountains and the elf. “He felt roaming the world dressed like a vagrant was more important than his friendship with the Inquisitor.”

“Dorian...” Ellana playfully warned him to stop before he began to rant.

Abelas wondered if the friendship had remained a platonic one since the man with lip hair had sounded less than happy with the Dread Wolf. It would not be the first time Fen’Harel had lost the battle with his heart. “Why did he leave?”

“Solas was upset that the orb Corypheus carried was broken, but other than that, I’m not sure to be honest.” Ellana said to him. The tinge of hurt in her words, the way she fumbled with the tie of her nightgown, and glanced around the room as she spoke, told Abelas all he needed to know concerning the relationship between the Inquisitor and the Dread Wolf. He had heard that same forlorn attempt at an explanation before from his own men, usually when one had been bitterly rejected or left wondering what he had done this time to deserve a woman’s scorn. “I last saw him at the end of the battle briefly and then he was gone.”

“I see,” Abelas said, and he saw far more than any of them realized. “I would like to speak to the Inquisitor alone.”

Dorian turned to face his best friend. “Ellana?” he asked.

“It’s fine,” she assured Dorian. “Besides, I have some questions of my own.”

Dorian pointed a finger at the ancient elf. “Be nice,” he warned. He signaled for Cole to follow; the spirit disappeared instead. “Typical Cole.”

Ellana waited for the sound of Dorian’s footsteps to die away before speaking. “So… I have to say, you were the last person I expected to find at the end of a leash.” She moved her head in the direction of Abelas’s footsteps. “What happened?”

“We were on our way to a place hidden from mortals,” Abelas explained. “The roads we had avoided, moving only at night, but… it mattered little. Unknowingly, we were stalked by Anaris. His men ambushed our scouting party near the ancient Durgen’len entrance.” He turned away to look upon the mountains. The plague, named the blight by the humans, had stretched Anaris’s power from his prison in the Void to the far recesses of Thedas, and from the shadows he watched, nudging the world in directions that he favored for the vengeance he craved. His people had fallen victim to Anaris’s machinations. They had become the bait needed to cocoon the Inquisitor. “One of my scouts escaped and informed me that a small group of our people was being held southwest of our position,” Abelas said. “I was told they were beaten, stripped of their armor, and toyed with for the soldier’s amusement. I could not understand why my people were not given a quick and honorable death.”

Abelas turned to face the Inquisitor once more. She was sitting in the middle of her bed, legs crossed, covered in a gaudy floral nightgown that buttoned at the base of her neck. He had paid little attention to the Inquisitor at the Temple of Mythal. His concern had been for the Vir’abelasan, but now that they were alone, he decided to take the opportunity to examine the woman who had managed to defeat Corypheus. The hair that crowned her head was shoulder length, thick and lustrous. It contrasted nicely with the tone of her skin and the color of her eyes. The vallaslin that once marked her as June’s had been removed, no doubt by the Dread Wolf. If he were honest, she was an attractive woman, but beyond her physical appearance, there was more, a spirit shackled by time and the veil and beyond that—something different—something he could not quite perceive, as if her spirit were covered in a closed magical barrier. This intrigued him, but for now, Anaris, was his immediate concern.

“I am going to take a wild stab in the dark...” Ellana gestured to her eyes and laughed a little, “and guess you walked right up to Commander Bouchard and asked for your people to be freed.”

“You are correct. The shemlen acted dishonorably and attacked me. It was not wholly unexpected,” Abelas stated in a bored tone as if it were an everyday occurrence. He looked to the fire’s dancing flames, reminded of the day he was told that the last of Elvhenan had fallen to Tevinter. Humans were opportunist in his mind, taking what they could, destroying what they could not. “I killed many of his men in the act of despoiling their bodies. Reinforcements arrived before I could rejoin the main host of my people.”

“Your people did not attempt to rescue you?” she asked.

The reminder of losing the sentinels was a pain he could not put into words. “I ordered my people to leave and never return.”

“You... sacrificed yourself,” Ellana whispered.

“Would you not do the same for your people?” Abelas asked, although he was certain he already knew the answer. From what he had seen at the temple, the Inquisitor had been concerned, not only for the safety of her people, but for his as well.

“Yes,” she answered. “I have often gone into what was considered a hopeless battle knowing I may not come back, but I was always willing to do it, especially if it meant my friends’ lives would be saved.”

“Then you understand duty as I do,” he remarked. He turned to face the window where the lonely mountain peaks stood staring back. “But unlike you, I have no way to return to my people.”

“If it is supplies and a mount that keep you from rejoining your people, I can help you,” she suggested with care. Ellana did not want to give Abelas the impression that he was not welcome at Skyhold.

“The priestess used the Eluvian. The way is locked to me,” he explained, and he bowed his head. “If Mythal is kind, I will receive a swift and honorable end in battle.”

“Ir abelas, Hahren,” she whispered solemnly. “I know your pain.”

Abelas turned from the window and faced Ellana. “You know nothing of my pain,” he snapped. “All that I had—all that remained—is out of my reach.”

At the temple of Mythal, Ellana had held her tongue when Abelas proclaimed vehemently that the Dalish were not his people. Her clan would have cherished every word the ancient elf uttered if only he had been willing to teach them of their past. But no, he denied her that joy in the most humiliating way possible. 

“I lost my clan because of this _..._ ” she held up her anchor hand, “ _..._ my parents have disowned me, and now I’ve lost my sight, and you have the gall to tell me I know nothing of loss?” Ellana spat back at him. “I know!” she yelled. “You do not get to judge me in my home!”

The echo of her voice faded to an uncomfortable silence. Since Ellana had yet to hear the door shut, she assumed the ancient man remained. A few tears fell, and then more than she could hope to wipe away. 

Abelas was moved to pity. It had not been his intention to disrespect the young woman’s feelings. Empathy was one of his closest friends in the Fade, but the ability to empathize with another often eluded him. Empathy was not conducive to judging the righteousness of a person, but more importantly, it was not conducive to serving a goddess and handing down her judgment. To empathize with the condemned was considered a disobedient act in the temple. This, of course, was not the temple and the Inquisitor was not on trial. He had little experience outside of that world and even less practice with mortals. This was new territory and he hated it. He decided to use the empathy Ellana had once shown him to see if it would help.

“Ir abelas,” Abelas whispered. “This cannot be easy for you.”

Ellana recognized those words. They were hers, the words she had spoken to him the day his duty had finished. Was he mocking her or was he consoling her? She could not tell. “I cannot believe I am crying in front of you,” she admitted to her horror. The tears flowed faster from the embarrassment of it. “I feel like a needy child. It’s shameful.”

“There is no shame in sorrow—there is only regret,” Abelas said in an effort to appease not only her pain, but his too. He had repeated the phrase in his mind a multitude of times since the loss of Mythal and the arrival of the veil. Up until today, it had been his unsaid mantra.

_What a thing for him to say,_ and she considered the words in earnest. One thing she had learned about Abelas, even in the short time she had known him, was that his words were always carefully chosen. Today was no exception. _We may feel shame because of what we did or didn’t do but sorrow comes later... it’s what we are left with when the other emotions have diminished. Even with unavoidable loss, I regret that I will not see the person one last time so I can tell them what they meant to me._ _I wish_ _Abelas had been around a couple of years ago to say that to me. Sorrow_ _is born from regrets,_ _of which_ _I have so many. I bet he does too._

While Abelas waited patiently for the Inquisitor to regain her composure, he was reminded of a conversation that had taken place the first evening after they had left the temple. The sentinels were seated around a campfire, speaking of all that had happened that day in the temple, specifically the Inquisitor, when the head priestess spoke. “Several lifetimes of men and you still do not know how to speak to a woman, Abelas.” It had been a much needed quip after losing so many of their own to Corypheus’s men. Of course, she had not been wrong. He just hated that she knew him so well. 

“The Vir’abelasan may have held the answer to your blindness,” Abelas said softly.

Ellana wiped her eyes one last time. “I was under the impression that you knew the information contained within the well.” 

“I drank from the Vir’abelasan long ago, when Elvhenan was still the kingdom of the elves and alas, my memory, is not what it once was,” he said to her. “Much has slipped away during the long passages of time spent in Uthenera.”

The voices of the well began to stir at the mention of the name. Ellana listened to their ghostly murmurings hoping they would reveal how to cleanse Anaris’s magic from her body.

“Spring,” Ellana repeated. “It is all I can understand.”

Abelas moved quickly to the Inquisitor’s desk. He scribbled the word down on a piece of parchment. “Empty your mind. Focus on the sound of the voices, but do not try to comprehend the meaning of the words.”

This time Ellana allowed the voices to consume her thoughts. Then, as she relaxed, and the murmurings washed over her, a picture began to form in her mind. A range of mountains covered in snow and sparse pines, and beyond the mountains, a forest thick with birch, littered with boulders. At the center, a glade. Finally, a tall door outlined in silver writing.

“Vir Atish’an,” whispered Ellana. “It is what they are showing me.”

“Sylaise...” he said, sounding both solemn and reverent. He continued to take notes on the parchment and added several of his own thoughts as to where the spring may be located. “The voices show you The Way of the Peaceful Place.”

The ancient elf may have found the information useful, but for Ellana it was frustrating. What she had been shown was a time in the past when the Elvhen walked the world. “What use is it if I do not know how to find it?” Ellana asked. “It’s not like they provided a map.”

“Tell me your vision and I will record it,”Abelas instructed. He dipped the quill and readied his hand. “It is a beginning.” Ellana recounted what she had seen in her mind while Abelas wrote down every detail, even the color of the sky. People had changed much in his time, but major landmarks were hard to erase. “I will need maps both old and new,” Abelas said. “The place you speak of may have altered greatly since those priests who remember it lived.”

While Abelas continued to take notes, Ellana considered why he was helping, if there was something more to his aid than what he had stated. “May I ask you something?”

“I may not answer,” Abelas replied.

“Why are you trying to help me?” she asked. “When we spoke in the temple I was under the impression that you would rather sweep me out with the dirt than speak with me.” She shrugged. “Now you are here, helping me. It is odd.”

The quill fell from his hand. He knitted his fingers together and considered an answer. “I know what hunts you,” Abelas said in an ominous tone. “I felt it in the blood of the men who captured me. It has seeped into Tarasyl’an Te’las unchallenged.”

“Morrigan said the magic in this ancient place protected against evil,” Ellana countered. She did not believe Morrigan knew more than Abelas especially when it came to ancient Elvhen history, but the woman was learned and not prone to moronic comments. “Was she wrong?”

“No,” Abelas answered. “However the magic here holds no memory of Anaris. They were born of the same time.”

Ellana rolled her eyes. “Oh great, another ancient mystical thing is after me.” _Corypheus now Anaris_ _…_ _I kill one and another pops up. These ancient nasties are worse than weeds._ She folded her arms over her chest. “What did I do to piss this one off?”

“You did nothing to anger Anaris,” Abelas answered. “You have the favor of his enemy and the knowledge of the Vir’abelasan. It is a wound that time cannot heal.”

“I don’t understand.” Her brow knitted together. _The magic has an owner?_ Solas had told her the orb was Elvhen, however, she had assumed that whatever created it was long dead “You mean the anchor?”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “You die and Anaris has his vengeance and the knowledge to reshape the world.”

“Who is his enemy?” Ellana asked. _If Anaris has an enemy, he can still challenge, then that person or thing still lives_. “And who or what is Anaris?”

“Now is not the time,” Abelas said to her disappointment. “Anaris is the God of Darkness. It is why you have been blinded.” He ignored her sigh and turned his thoughts to Ellana’s safety. “I wish to ask you a question.”

“I may not answer,” she said, mocking him. The smallest of smirks formed on Abelas’s lips. 

“Has Anaris visited you in the Fade?”

“If he is the thing with lots of eyes, then yes.” The memory of it still haunted her thoughts. “It spoke to me, but I cannot remember the words.”

Abelas stopped writing. She was in more danger than he had first anticipated. He rose from the desk and walked to the door.

“I must strengthen the magic of Tarasyl’an Te’las and set wards,” he said over his shoulder. “I will return when I have completed my task.”

The concern in his voice was not something she had wanted to hear. Danger was nothing new, she stepped in it often, but to be blind… she had spent a solid week in darkness, and during every waking moment she had only wanted to go back to sleep so that she could enter the Fade and see again. Anaris had frightened and demoralized her with little effort and it scared her to think he could strike again. 

“Will the wards keep Anaris away?” she asked, disheartened. “I would be grateful to never see the eyes again.”

“It will help,” he answered.

“Ma serannas,” and she was thankful. Abelas had given her the first morsel of real hope since being blinded.

Abelas lingered at the door with his hand on the handle. “Dareth shiral.” He took one last look at the Inquisitor, noting how delicate and vulnerable she seemed to him sitting all alone in the middle of her bed. One sentinel could never hope to adequately protect her from Anaris, but he would try. 

As soon as the door closed, Cole appeared beside Ellana.

“He is worried,” Cole said. “But the magic will help.”

The sudden sound of Cole’s voice startled Ellana. “Creators, Cole, you scared me.” She ran her hands down her face. “I hate not being able to see.”

The spirit kissed Ellana on her cheek. “I am here.”

“Cole, can you look for him again?” she asked. “I need to find him. He may be able to help.”

“I will try,” Cole agreed. “But you should trust Sorrow. He is trying to help you and he _is_ here. _Solas_ is not here.”

Ellana patted the spirit’s leg. “I know,” she said in a sad voice. “One more time and then I will not ask again.”

Cole disappeared.


	5. Chew Toy

A pattern had been established in the confines of the Inquisitor’s bedroom. Every day Abelas came to question Ellana about the location of the Vir Atish’an, and after he had gleaned what information he could from the descriptions she provided, he would retire to her desk and study maps of Thedas. On occasion, he would ask Ellana for information concerning particular regions; the ruling body, descriptions of the culture, religious beliefs, and the state of the elves living in those areas. Abelas soon stopped asking about elven populace since their existence was always summed up by the words slavery, alienage, or forest.

After Abelas finished plotting areas on the maps, he would turn his attention to his hobby. The light in the Inquisitor’s room was the best in all of Skyhold, he had decided. He used it to illuminate the pages of his new book. When asked what it was he created, Abelas stated that it was a holy text and only the deserving would be allowed to look upon it. The statement had infuriated Sera, and she was determined to look inside the book at any cost. Ellana had warned Sera that it might very well cost her limb and possibly life if she did not leave Abelas alone.

“No friggin’ way! You cheated,” Sera proclaimed louder than was necessary. She threw her cards down on the small table and glared at Varric. “Right… you have a card up your sleeve? One in your chest hair or something?”

Varric raked the measly pile of coins he had won from Sera into his change purse. “No one likes a sore loser, Buttercup.”

Sera watched the coins disappear, disappointed by her losing streak. “Pfff, I’m not sore. I just think you cheat better than I do,” she whined. “Anyway, I was getting bored.”

The dwarf smiled back at his rowdy opponent. “Sure you were.”

“Perhaps if you did not scratch your nose when you attempt to bluff you would fare better,” Abelas commented without moving his eyes from his work. All heads turned to the hooded elf behind the Inquisitor’s desk. It was rare for him to speak, but when he did, it was usually with purpose. This was out of character for Abelas and that made Varric extremely curious.

“Who asked you, Dusty Butt?” Sera said to him, her brow wrinkling under the weight of her disapproval. “Like I’d take advice from some elfy-elf who doesn’t know shite about having fun.”

Abelas laid his quill gently down onto the desk and locked eyes with Sera. “You assume much.”

Varric leaned back into his chair and cocked his head towards Abelas. “Oh, this is where we learn that Perky and the other perky elves in the temple, engaged in ritualistic orgies every full moon, and frolicked through the streets of Arlathan naked.” Varric was waiting for Abelas to take the bait and argue, but to everyone’s surprise, the elf simply smirked and went back to his work. “I gotta write this down.” _Well, I’ll be a nug’s uncle_ , Varric thought after seeing the elf smirk. _I think under that sorrowful and stoic front, there might be a sense of humor in there. What I wouldn’t give to see him drunk._

After three weeks of observing Abelas, the dwarf had to admit that the elf intrigued him more than most people. Thousands of years old and he was sitting behind the Inquisitor’s desk doodling. The news of his arrival had spread like wildfire throughout the gossip network of Southern Thedas. Scholars and elves of every description were sending correspondence, hoping he would answer their questions, or even better, meet. But he refused every single request. One person alone had his full attention, and only because she had taken a sip of a watery substance that held the voices of long dead elves. It was a strange basis for a relationship, to be sure, but there was never a dull moment in the company of the Inquisitor.

“So, Perky, I’ve got this friend in Kirkwall who really wants to meet you,” Varric started to say even though he knew it was pointless. “Merrill is the sweetest elf you will ever meet, and she’s single.” He added the last piece of information in the off chance it might stroke Abelas’s attention.

Sera laughed at Varric’s obvious ploy. “She can do better than Dusty Butt.”

“Oh?” Varric asked, the word was laden with insinuation. “You have someone in mind, Sera?”

She thumbed towards Abelas. “Anyone but _him_ ,” she said, sounding disgusted by the thought. “We don’t need two elfy-elfs getting together and making more elfy-elfs.”

“That’s a lot of elf,” remarked Varric. “But you know, Merrill’s all right. Sure, she practices a bit of blood magic now and then, and gets hung up over ancient elven artifacts, but she means well.”

Abelas looked straight at the dwarf with eyebrows raised. “Artifact?” He noticed Varric’s triumphant smile and scowled. “What relic does she possess?”

“Give her five minutes of your time and you’ll have your answer,” Varric replied. The self-satisfied smirk did nothing to appease Abelas. “That’s all I ask.

Abelas gave a ponderous shake of his head. “No,” he pointedly said. “What she possesses may pose a danger to her well being. The ignorant would do well to leave alone what they do not understand.”

“And here I wondered why there weren’t a line of women waiting to ask you out on a date,” Varric grumbled. His bluff had been called. “Grumpy bastard.”

Ellana had noticed this game, and it was a game that Varric employed whenever a new member joined their party. It was the dwarf’s way of getting to know someone without being overly direct and it was clever. Abelas was the new chew toy destined to be attacked by Varric’s insatiable nosiness until he bored.

“For the love of what is left of my sanity, please leave Abelas alone,” Ellana pleaded. The sound of her knitting needles filled the room.

Sera followed the movement of the needles, almost a blur, until she was forced to look away for fear of getting dizzy. “How are you even doing that?” she wondered. “You can’t see.”

It reminded Ellana of the days she had spent curled up next to the fire with her mother, spinning wool and listening to her grandmother disapprove of her mother’s technique.

“Knitting?” Ellana asked. “In my clan we were taught many crafts at an early age. It makes surviving easier, believe it or not.”

“It’s not a pair of knickers is it?” Sera eyed the yarn creation with a curled lip. “Wouldn’t surprise me. Bet the Dalish think being uncomfortable is very elfy-elf.”

Ellana let out a sigh. “It’s a scarf for Abelas. He needs new clothes.”

The ancient sentinel looked up from his work and at the Inquisitor. He watched as she expertly knitted with bright blue yarn and decided that he might ask her later, when they were alone, if she would be willing to knit him a hat. His ears had been feeling the cold. “Ma serannas.”

“Once Fredric is back from Denerim he will schedule a fitting,” Ellana said. It had been her intention to discuss the problem of Abelas’s clothing in private. There was no chance of that now, not with Sera and Varric in the room.

Varric was puzzled. “Wait… I thought Frederic was that Orlesian we found in the desert, the one who wanted to play with a high dragon.”

“This is Frederic the tailor, not Frederic the Professor of Draconology,” Ellana corrected. The explanation still sounded ridiculous. “It’s a common name.”

“What? Is Dusty Butt too good to buy clothes from the market here in Skyhold?” Sera’s mouth hung open in protest of Abelas’s special treatment. “It’s where I buy mine.”

Ellana rolled her eyes. “Elven clothes are too small and human clothes are too wide and short,” she reluctantly explained. “He needs a tailor.”

“Why do elfy-elfs always have to be so difficult?” Sera retorted. “Bet there’s a sack in the stable he could wear.”

“From what I have observed, a sack would be preferable to Skyhold’s market attire,” Abelas replied without looking up from his work.

Sera stuck her tongue out at the ancient elf and gestured rudely to Ellana and Varric who were still laughing at his unexpected insult. She pushed herself up from her chair and walked hastily to the door. The over-exaggerated anger was no doubt for show, something Sera excelled at when the opportunity arose. If she had truly been angry, Abelas would have an arrow through his book, or worse, his head.

Sera opened the door to find Josephine standing behind it, ready to knock. The two women eyed each other with mutual dislike.

“Excuse me, Sera” Josephine moved to the side to allow her to pass. “I need to speak with the Inquisitor.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Sera rudely brushed past Josephine on her way out.

“Hey Ruffles...” Varric gestured towards an empty chair. “I’d invite you to play a round of Diamond Back, but I don’t want to lose all the coin I just won from Sera.”

Josephine smiled. “I’m afraid I would have to decline. I am here for the Inquisitor.”

The knitting stopped. Ellana suspected a member of her inner circle was either in trouble or was soon to be. Since the loss of her sight, the Inquisition advisors had seen to any immediate problems at Skyhold in order to give her time to adjust to her new circumstances. She assumed that her authority was needed in a matter that was either personal or complicated.

“Oh?” Ellana asked. “It better not concern Cole because I’ve—”

“No Inquisitor.” Josephine interrupted sharply.

“Dorian?”

“No, Inquisitor. This is a different matter entirely,” Josephine said to Ellana’s relief. “Your presence in the war room is required, my lady.”

After going through her usual list of suspects she was stumped. “What’s this about Josephine?” Ellana asked. “It would need to be very important to take me away from my knitting.”

“I assure you that it is important, Inquisitor,” Josephine told her. The sight of the knitting needles and yarn brought a quirky smile to the ambassador’s face. “I was also under the impression that you hated to knit.”

She shrugged. “It’s one of the few things I can do without needing my sight.”

The reminder made Josephine shift uncomfortably from side-to-side. “It is good that you can be productive.”

The Inquisitor placed the needles and yarn in a basket and scooted to the edge of the bed. “I will need you to guide me, Lady Montilyet.”

“Of course, Inquisitor.” Josephine lifted Ellana’s small hand and laid it in the crook of her arm. “Shall we?”

Ellana smiled and allowed the ambassador to lead her to the door. “No finer escort have I ever had,” she joked. “I suggest we dance.”

“With all due respect, Inquisitor, you are quite ridiculous today.” Josephine opened the door. “Have you been at the Antivan liquor again?”

The Inquisitor chuckled. “I am afraid, my dear ambassador, that I was born this way.”

Abelas listened to the two women trade lighthearted remarks during their walk across the room together. It troubled him that the Inquisitor had yet to make an effort to adapt. The loss of sight did not need to render a person helpless. As he watched their departure, he wondered if there was a way to help the Inquisitor find independence again.

Josephine and Ellana stepped into the main hall. The midday meal was being served and the sound of cutlery on plates rang throughout the large room. People whispered when Ellana passed, some greeted her, but overall she was left with the distinct impression that most had ignored her presence altogether. It did not come as a surprise since Orlesians were off-put by the slightest anomaly; her lack of vision being a big one.

Inside the war room, Cullen and Leliana were speaking about the impending transition from spymaster to divine. Josephine made certain the Inquisitor was positioned safely next to the war table before walking to her usual spot on the opposite side.

“Inquisitor, allow me to introduce—” Leliana was cut short by an unfamiliar voice.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” The man said. His voice was smooth as silk and his accent was unmistakably Antivan. “My name is Zevran Arainai. May I just say that it is a pleasure to meet you, my dear Inquisitor,” he enthused. “The stories of your heroics and beauty are legendary throughout Thedas.”

Ellana tried to place a face to the name. It sounded strangely familiar. “I... thank you,” she replied. Her cheeks flushed a rosy red. “Leliana?”

Leliana sighed. “Zevran will be your new spymaster until a more suitable replacement is found.”

“He may employ a colorful language, your worship,” Josephine added. “But Master Arainai is no stranger to battle. He fought alongside the Hero of Fereldan during the Fifth Blight, and before that, he was once an assassin for the Antivan Crows, although… we do not talk about that unless it’s pertinent.”

Ellana was surprised by the disclosure. “Have I ever told you that you bring me the most interesting people to meet?” She gestured in the direction of the man’s voice. “So… how does an assassin end up fighting an archdemon?”

“That is a good tale, and one I look forward to telling, but perhaps it should wait,” Zevran offered. He was determined to prove that he was more than capable of handling the new role. “I have heard tell that there is an assassin in your custody, your worship.”

Josephine decided an explanation was needed. “The would-be assassin has been questioned many times by our people, but he will not speak. I must ask what you would have us do with him, Inquisitor?”

“He has said nothing?” Ellana remembered the fight with the assassin and his arrows. It had been a close encounter, a real test of her prowess in battle, and the mere thought of it made her angry. “Has he been “persuaded” to talk?”

The remark brought a devious smile to Zevran’s lips. “Oh, I like the way you think, your worship. I did question him rather thoroughly, but alas, he refused to be forthcoming. Quite amazing really, considering—”.

Leliana cleared her throat and shot a warning glance at the new spymaster. “Zevran, the Inquisitor does not need to hear the particulars of your interrogation,” she said to him. “The assassin should be judged and dealt with, my lady, and quickly.”

“I agree,” Zevran said. “Loose ends may be desirable in certain situations, but this is not one of them, your worship.”

Ellana believed their new spymaster was going to make war meetings very interesting. “I was not going to ask for an explanation.”

“That would be for the best,” Leliana agreed. “Zevran tends to be detailed if given the chance.”

Ellana grabbed a map pin from the table and toyed with it while she considered Zevran’s flamboyant behavior. She now recalled that his name had been mentioned at the last Arlathvhen; the meeting of the Dalish every ten years. He was considered an elven hero even among the Dalish, maybe not on par with Garahel, but a hero nonetheless. It was days like today that felt surreal. Two years ago she was no one, a simple Dalish elf fighting to survive the wilds, but now… she was gathered around a table with some of the most influential and legendary people in all of Southern Thedas. Life was strange.

“We should adjourn,” Ellana decided. Of all her duties as Inquisitor she hated passing judgment the most. “Bring the assassin to the hall.”

“As you wish, Inquisitor,” Leliana replied.

Josephine led Ellana back into the main hall and to her throne. This signaled to the court that a trial was to take place. By the noise, the Inquisitor was able to discern that a large crowd had gathered. That only happened when people believed that there was a higher-than-usual chance of an execution.

Hushed whispers echoed throughout the hall once Josephine stepped forward and bowed her head to the Inquisitor.

“My lady, as you well know we have in our custody one assassin...” The ambassador waited for the jailers to present the prisoner. He was a small man with a chin full of thick black whiskers and a mop of greasy black hair. “He has been questioned, but he will not speak. I must ask, what you would have us do with him?”

Ellana considered the matter with care. If the assassin had been successful, she, and possibly several other innocent people, would be dead. He may not have thrown the flask that caused her blindness, but he had a role in it. _Was the motive simply coin or had he agreed to help Bouchard for another reason?_ It was infuriating that he would not offer an explanation.

“Do you have anything to say in your defense?” Ellana asked him. There was an angry quiver in her voice when she spoke that surprised even her. “Now would be the time to explain to me why I should spare your life.” The man, to her horror, began to sob. But as the seconds passed, there were still no words spoken. “Say something,” Ellana demanded. “Do not try and play on my sympathy assassin, I have none for you.”

Zevran cleared his throat and stepped forward. “I could kill him for you. No charge,” he offered. The new spymaster was watching the prisoner cry with apparent disapproval. “You know… I was once in the same position as you, my dear assassin. I looked up and I was surrounded by two gorgeous women, a foolish looking man, and a witch. I did not cry, I bargained my way out. You should consider doing the same.” The assassin looked up at Zevran and then to Ellana with tears streaming down his face. He was a sopping mess of a man. “She is a goddess, no?”

Leliana stepped in front of Zevran. “Zevran can finish this for you, Inquisitor. Everything else he said is irrelevant.”

“I say the Inquisitor is a goddess and you say that is irrelevant.” Zevran clicked his tongue several times at his old friend. “Must you be so cruel, my dear Leliana?”

To the court’s surprise, the assassin began to speak. “I did not want to kill you,” he said to Ellana, his voice shaky and uncertain. “But I made a deal a long time ago and I am bound to it.”

“Bound?” Ellana leaned forward to better hear the assassin.

The man wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his arm. “Anaris,” the assassin answered. “I’m not crying because you might kill me. I cry because I know what awaits me after death.”

Anaris was swiftly becoming a name Ellana dreaded to hear. Tales of the Forgotten Ones had been told to her by the clan keeper as a warning that revenge against those who had hurt the elves could lead one down a dark path, and into the arms of malignant gods. Now, it was obvious that the Forgotten Ones were not limited to dark, elven cults, but that they also held sway over humans. Since meeting Solas, and to some extent Abelas, the Inquisitor had learned that her people were not the keepers of ancient Elvhen lore she had once thought them to be. Today, she was reminded, yet again, that the Dalish knew little of the past.

“I don’t understand...” Ellana’s brow wrinkled. “How could you possibly know what awaits you after death?”

Abelas stepped from the shadows and stood before the Inquisitor and proclaimed, “He is bound to the will of Anaris as we are bound to the will of Mythal. Upon death, he will go to the Void, and it is there that he will dwell in eternal darkness.”

Ellana looked surprised to see Abelas present at the trial. “Are you here because he tried to kill you?”

“No…” Abelas glared at the assassin. “I wanted to see justice in the eyes of a Shemlen. I am so far unimpressed.”

That was the Abelas she knew and detested at times. “Is there a way to help him?” Ellana asked.

Abelas studied the Inquisitor and then looked to the assassin. “This man was willing to take your life. Why would you help him?”

“No one deserves that fate,” Ellana answered. Her expression turned somber. “Can we really condemn him to the Void?”

The very word was not something her clan spoke of lightly. It was considered blasphemous to wish someone to that dark abyss where no god or mortal should remain. To know someone was destined to spend eternity in the Void, even by their own foolishness, was not a thing she could allow in good conscience. It was a step too far.

Since Abelas had been impressed by her mercy he offered advice. “Mythal may look kindly upon the assassin if he were to redeem himself in your service.”

“Wait… what?” Ellana wanted to question his sanity but thought better of it. “You want me to put him to work for the Inquisition?”

“You asked how he might be helped and I have answered,” Abelas stated in a firm voice. “His fate does not concern me. He chose and so must you.”

The assassin laid himself before the Inquisitor’s feet. “I beg you, though I know I don’t have the right to ask, if serving you will free me from the hell that awaits, I will be your most humble and loyal servant.”

“If he is commanded by Anaris surely the compulsion to kill the Inquisitor will remain,” Leliana protested. “I do not think we can trust him.”

To Leliana’s annoyance, Ellana turned to Abelas for guidance. “She has a point.”

“Once he pledges his loyalty to the Inquisitor it will break the compulsion,” Abelas said to Leliana. The disapproval from the advisor had been expected.

“If it’s that easy then he could pledge his service to Zevran or Leliana or I don’t know… the tavern keeper,” Ellana exclaimed with animated hand gestures. “It can’t be that easy.”

“To pledge loyalty to you is to pledge loyalty to Mythal, the bitterest of Anaris’s foes,” Abelas replied. The voices from the well began to stir in Ellana’s mind. “I see from your expression that my words have been confirmed.”

Ellana sighed. “I believed you,” she affirmed. “They just felt the need to tell me you were right. It’s annoying, you know.”

Abelas smirked and then nodded once to the Inquisitor. He stepped back into the shadows to await the final judgment. Leliana’s eyes never left him. When he challenged her continued observation, she looked away.

The Inquisitor pondered the problem of the assassin. To Zevran’s amusement, Ellana was whispering possible judgments she might pass on the accused. After two years, the majority of the court was used to this particular behavior. Abelas found it both disconcerting and charming at the same time.

“What is your name?” Ellana asked the assassin. “I will not pass judgment without knowing it.”

The assassin raised his head slowly and looked up at the Inquisitor. “It is Henry, your worship.”

“Pledge your service to me and I will release you into the custody of Zevran,” Ellana stated. “Do nothing and you will face my blade.”

The words toppled from Henry’s mouth. “I pledge my loyalty to you, your worship,” he said fervently. “I am your servant.”

“No—” Ellana corrected. “You are Mythal’s charge now.”

There were several gasps and whispers from the crowd that had assembled, some of them angry, most confused. It was all Ellana needed to hear to know the people disapproved. But she did not care. The role of Inquisitor had been thrust upon her, as had the title of Herald of Andraste. How many wrongs had been committed against her people in Andraste’s name? The court could say what they wanted as long as they did not expect her to agree or pander to their beliefs.

“We need answers,” Ellana said to Zevran. “Please find out how and why Henry entered the service of Anaris.”

The new spymaster bowed. “As you wish.” Zevran motioned for the assassin to follow.

“Thank you,” Henry said to Ellana. “I am so grateful, your worship.”

Ellana leaned over, and even though she could not see Henry’s face, she could sense he was close. “Do not make me regret this.”

Zevran pulled Henry up by his arm and marched him out of the main hall. There was no doubt in Ellana’s mind that her new spymaster would be very thorough with his interrogation. She had to admit that he was more entertaining than Leliana, although she was certain he had his hidden secrets too. Perhaps, in time, she would find Zevran to be a valuable asset to the Inquisition. For now, she would keep her distance and observe.


	6. Old Friends

Cole had searched the Beyond for Solas, seeking him in those familiar places they had met during their slumber, but he found no one, not even a memory of him. It was as if the Fade had erased their friendship from existence. And that was odd.

Eventually Cole returned to Ellana and explained that he could not find Solas. The news was not well received. The tears welled in her eyes, little diamonds of pain ready to spill over… _scared_ … _wishing_ … _yearning_ , and the hope faded from her heart ... _hurting_ , like the time she chased Ferrill through the forest and the angry bee stung her hand. It was his job to help the hurting and ease the pain if he could, and so he would try. He suggested that she relive memories of her time with Solas when in the Fade, since it had the potential to attract his attention. Ellana was skeptical, not knowing if Solas was that gifted at traversing the Fade or not. But Cole assured her that it was within his power to do so.

There was one memory above all others that Ellana chose to recount. The Enavuris Gorge was a natural wonderland of stone formations, natural bridges, and rock shelters. It was on the edge of the Exalted Plains, and because of its breathtaking views, it had been a frequent camping spot for Ellana and her crew. There was a particular place where the Enavuris River mellowed, almost to a standstill, where it was clear and calm and reflected the tall pines like a watery mirror. This is where Ellana stood in the Fade remembering the night she had propositioned Solas.

A figure stepped from the darkness into the imagined firelight of the camp. He was garbed in a bulky dark robe trimmed with golden embroidered vines. His face was masked, covered by the hollow head of a wolf, his feet bound in dark leather bindings—a shaman stood before Ellana, or so she believed.

“Who are you?” she asked, taking a step back. “Are you demon or spirit?”

The man waved his hand, and Ellana’s body was engulfed in an orb of magic. She was lifted into the air where she remained unaware and disconnected from the events unfolding below.

“I summon you, Anaris,” the shaman spoke. The campsite faded away, replaced by the familiar sight of barren rocks bathed in the green glow of the fade, and above it all the eternal city, dark and foreboding, floating endlessly. “Let us speak in peace.”

Three hooded figures appeared and stepped forward. “I have answered your summons, Fen’Harel,” one of the hooded figures stated in a deep, crisp voice. “Speak, if you must, but there will be no peace until I am freed from my prison.”

“How is it you have come to be in the Fade?” This was the question Fen'Harel had contemplated a thousand times over since Anaris began hunting the Inquisitor in the Fade, and a thousand curses always followed. Theoretically, it was not possible, of course theoretically, neither was the veil nor the Void. He would be impressed if it were not for the fact that Anaris was a dangerous enemy. “Your spirit is held in the Void and it is inescapable… or so I believed.”

One of the figures pulled back their hood. An elven man with eyes red and glowing, long black hair, and skin pale as starlight stared back at him; a smirk lingered on his lips. “I know where it is I dwell, Fen’Harel,” he said, his words sardonic and certain. He gestured to the empty space around them. “Magic finds its way through the deepest recesses, through the impenetrable for it knows no bounds and always it will return to the heart. But seeing what it sees…” he nodded and when he met Fen’Harel’s gaze again, his smirk grew in confidence, “...now there is a true talent.”

“Impossible...” Fen’Harel said to him. The echo of his voice died and silence fell between the two men. The steps he had taken, the lengths he had gone to, the sacrifices he had made to ensure none could escape… Fen’Harel closed his eyes and sighed. His plans may yet unravel and he was not ready. “If that is so, then you know…”

Anaris nodded sagely as if he were schooling the Dread Wolf in a lesson. “...I know what lies beneath Tarasyl'an Te'las. I know how you formed your veil and imprisoned us and the Evanuris. That is how I am here, Fen’Harel.”

“You are traveling through the Titan’s heart,” Fen’Harel said, sounding almost impressed. “I never would have thought you capable of such a feat.”

“You and your people always underestimated mine.” Anaris paced a few steps thinking how best to convey what he wanted to say. This conversation would decide his next move, and though his anger and resentment had stewed for thousands of years, he hoped a compromise could be reached for the benefit of everyone. But he sincerely doubted it. “You named me a friend once and I, the same. But this…” He looked around, his arms outstretched, gesturing to the chaotic Fade. “You chose to commit a crime against nature itself to avenge _her_ death. Why? Why would you do such a thing?”

“What did the Dread Puppy do this time?” a voice asked. An elven man appeared beside Fen’Harel, clad in black leather with a fencing cloak slung over one shoulder. “Sorry I am late,” he said. His green eyes twinkled with mirth in the light of the Fade, his mocha skin adding warmth to his humored face. He acknowledged Fen’Harel with a perfunctory nod. “I couldn’t resist that last cup of afternoon tea.”

Fen’Harel sighed. “Now is not the time for levity, Oron.”

“Sorry... you’ll both have to forgive me. I have yet to master my grumpy, grim, and extremely fatalistic Elvhen outlook on life.” Oron gestured to Anaris with a flick of a single finger and bestowed upon him the youthful look of boredom. “Oh it’s you, the demon who has been hunting me in the Fade.”

“Anaris hunts you as well?” Fen’Harel thoughtfully regarded Anaris. His expression remained calm and unchanging until their eyes met. Anaris smirked, looking pleased with himself, but the old wolf wasn’t amused and it showed. “That is... troubling.”

Oron folded his arms over his chest and straightened his back. He was taller than all those present, just like his father who usually stood a head above everyone else. “He offered to spare my life, and instead, kill my father in return if I brought him the Inquisitor.” He grunted at the unpleasant reminder. He didn’t get along with his father at the best of times, but he sure as hell didn’t want him dead either. “Typical pride demon tactics.”

“He is not a pride demon,” Solas informed him.

“Oh… well, whatever he is, he needs to work on his sales pitch. Toothless old whores prostitute themselves better,” Oron laughed at his own remark. “So what is he? I can’t tell in his current form.”

“I am a spirit, _boy_ ,” Anaris stepped forward. He was close to Oron, close enough to reach out and gather a lock of his hair into his hand. Oron allowed it, thinking it was a ploy to see if he would flinch, if he, the youngest, would show his fear. He remained still and emotionless. The golden rings adorning his dreadlocks seemed to hold Anaris’s interest, and if Anaris wanted to pretend he was just sating his curiosity then Oron would let him, but he _refused_ to appear weak. “A rare and powerful spirit forged at the beginning of time itself.” Anaris moved and the dreadlock slipped from his hand. “I have witnessed the evolution of our people from spirit to mortal. I was there when the first of us reached out to touch the earth and I watched it all crumble and slide away… to nothing,” he pointed a terse finger at Fen’Harel, “because of him.”

“Ah of course you would blame Fen.” Oron had heard it all before. Fen’Harel was to blame for the loss of Elvhenan, possibly everything if some of his people were to be believed. But it wasn’t that simple, and any who tried to point a sanctimonious finger at his friend would have it slapped away. “I may have missed the first ten thousand years, but I was definitely there at the end, and trust me, the situation was immortally fucked.”

Fen’Harel smirked. “I had wondered how long it would be before you employed your signature use of colorful language, Oron.”

“It felt like the appropriate time,” Oron’s hands fell to his hips as he took on an air of command. “Look... Fen did what had to be done and I can only assume that if you were locked away like the Evanuris, it was for a damn good reason.”

“Look at you…” Anaris circled Oron in slow, purposeful steps, examining him from head to foot. “...you dress and speak like the mortal men, the vermin that now claim our domain as their own.” He stopped and stood face-to-face. “You are not fit to be counted among us.”

Oron shrugged. “Who said I wanted to be counted among the Elvhen?” It was true that he did not see the Elvhen as his people. Admitting it was always odd, but Oron was not ashamed and he felt justified. He had watched the world unfold for over two thousand years, witnessed his father choose a life of servitude over sanity, lived through the worst of the Evanuris’s destructive regime, and he had been there at the very end when the humans destroyed the last of the Elvhen empire. It had been a bitter fate, but always, after it was done and someone made their mark on the world for better or worse, good people still remained. The continued mortal struggle against terrible odds strangely humored him, but it also gave him hope, and he refused to back down or apologize for how he felt. “There have been many instances in my life when I have considered mortal man freer and luckier than any of us Elvhen,” he said to Anaris. “There is a strange beauty in mortality. They have but one life to live and their rulers the same.” He looked up at the black city hovering high above their heads. “They do not have to live in fear of a better day never coming,” he said solemnly.

“Oron speaks wisdom beyond his years,” Fen’Harel said, defending him. “If only his elders were so thoughtful.”

Oron smirked. A compliment from Fen'Harel always pleased him. He admired the old wolf and had done since he was a child. “I’m also less prone to insanity and delusions of grandeur than most of my elders,” he added. “Why is there always someone among the Elvhen who believes they have the right to lord over everyone?” Oron stepped forward and stood proudly before Anaris. “You and those like you are the reason there are so few of us left.”

“I did not summon you to be schooled by this young pup who knows not his head from his arse, Fen’Harel,” Anaris remarked. “Grant me and my people freedom and let us return to our rightful home.”

Oron sighed. It wasn’t the first time he had been ignored by those among the Elvhen who thought they were better than the rest, and it would certainly not be the last. Perhaps it was even deserved after openly disregarding his own race.

“I will not release you, Anaris,” Fen’Harel answered.

“The Fade is our rightful home,” he protested. “If you will not grant me freedom, at least allow my people to return.”

“That would suggest that they deserve to return,” Fen’Harel replied, anger rising in each word spoken. “Choices were made, sides taken. You chose poorly and so did your people.”

“So we are doomed to an eternity spent solely in the Void?” Anarias asked. Two thousand years to find a way to speak with the Dread Wolf and this was the result. A flash of blue and Anaris stood now but a breath away from Fen’harel. Oron reached for his sword. Fen’Harel motioned for him to stay his hand. “I had hoped a compromise could be reached. But know this _Dread Wolf_ ,” he mocked, “we _will_ be free of your prison and when we are, you will wish you had compromised.”

“Who are you anyway?” Oron asked. “If you’re not one of the Evanuris, why are you locked away?”

Anaris stepped away from Fen’Harel and walked back to stand between the two hooded figures. Oron relaxed. The question had diffused the situation just as he had hoped.

“I was once a teacher and a respected elder of the People,” Anaris explained. “Before the rise of the pretenders, the Evanruis, and even before the dawn of the Elvhen, we existed; a harmonious mass of spiritual energy that ebbed and flowed as one. My name was known then, revered even. The evolution of our people brought forth change that I and others like me found distasteful. We were shunned for our beliefs and eventually driven from the Fade.”

“And what beliefs are those?” Oron asked. Anaris was an enemy of the Evanuris and not afraid to admit it; that was a strange concept. For a brief moment, he wondered why this was the first he had heard of Anaris and his people and then it dawned on him: these were the Forgotten Ones, and that fascinated him even more, because no one, not his father, not even Fen’Harel had recounted their tale.

“The true form of the Elvhen should remain unchanged and the earth untouched,” Anaris answered in a resounding tone. “The Fade provides all that we need. It should be blatantly obvious by now that seeking more was an act of sheer folly. Our arrogance has brought us to the brink of extinction.”

“So let me see if I understand this…” Oron chuckled a little, “...you and your people found the evolution of the Elvhen distasteful so you… what? Decided to commit some horrible crime against everyone because they had a difference of opinion?” Anaris confirmed Oron’s guess with a nod. The stupidity of it astounded Oron. “ _Really_?”

“It was a grotesque act; a change that defiled our very nature, _boy_ ,” Anaris responded. “The wise, however, should have anticipated this and guided us to the rightful path away from foolishness… He looked pointedly at Fen’Harel, “... but they did not.”

“Anaris and his people are purists seeking to return to what they consider the “natural” state of being.” Fen’Harel paused, considering what that really meant. Anaris could never understand that one answer did not negate the other; the Elvhen could have peacefully coexisted in both states of being. The Forgotten Ones inability to compromise led to the first war of the People and to the rise of the Evanuris. It was the catalyst that set the world of the Elvhen aflame, and even now, after all that had been lost, an argument as old as time itself was still raging. “I will not deny that in many ways Anaris and his people were wronged,” Fen’Harel reluctantly admitted. “Inevitably, the change created a rift between the People, the majority being in favor of evolution.” Fen’Harel waved his hand and a picture of events formed in the Fade. Oron watched, fascinated by the images. “At first, the spirits were eager to emulate the simplistic living things reflected in the Fade. Eventually, this fascination, if you will, grew in complexity, and as it did, so did imagination. What had started as imitation created a spark and the People began to create, and thus, true artistic freedom was born.” Fen’Harel remembered those early days fondly having been fortunate enough to witness the birth of something new. Beautiful… thoughtful... beings possessed of wisdom and the essence of magic itself, taking their first steps, mingling with the earth and its creatures in what could have been a never ending harmony of magic and form… if not for the rise of the Forgotten Ones and eventually the Evanuris.

“And look where that evolution has left us,” Anaris said. His voice grew angry. “That was not our purpose!”

“Perhaps not,” Fen’Harel conceded. “But as I have stated on numerous occasions, we are part of this world, a world that evolves and undulates through the ages, where change is the very nature of the universe. In other words, any intelligent life would eventually bore from it’s own tedium and seek to evolve. But you, like always, refuse to accept what is plainly the truth.”

“Your truth, perhaps,” Anaris replied snidely. “It is not ours.”

“I have to agree with Fen on this one,” Oron said. “A puddle of spiritual energy is swell, but I would think that would quickly get pretty damn boring.”

“No one asked for your opinion, _boy_ ,” Anaris said to Oron. “This conversation is as aimless as I suspected it would be. I sought to find a way to reconcile our past differences, Fen’Harel. It is now obvious to me that I needn’t have bothered.” Anaris eyed the two hooded figures flanking him in turn. “Besides,” he smirked, “I have what I need to free myself and reclaim our realm.”

Oron looked to Fen’Harel for an explanation. He hoped that the spiritual goo loving lunatic was making an empty threat. “What is Anaris talking about?”

“The Blight,” A new voice answered. A woman with long golden blonde hair had appeared and now stood at Fen’Harel’s side. “The Evanuris may have corrupted the Titan with their blood but it is Anaris who now controls the force behind their anger.”

Anaris bowed and added two flamboyant hand gestures to mock the woman. “Mythal…” he stated, bored and indifferent. “You have come to me in your original form. Should I be honored or concerned? Have you finally tired of Flemeth?” His eyes moved from Mythal’s to Fen’Harel’s. “Or... is there perhaps a more intimate reason for this change?”

Mythal ignored the comment. “I came if only to remind myself why I do not consider you with much regard…” She glanced at him once. “I am reminded.”

“Insult me all you like, Mythal… you would not come if you believed me to be anything less than a threat to your plans.” Anaris focused his attention on Ellana floating high above them. “There hangs my retribution for the death of Geldauran by both your hands and the key to my freedom—all within one tiny mortal.”

Oron studied the sleeping Inquisitor. “She’s pretty. Wait… is she Dalish?”

“Yes,” Fen’Harel answered. He was unable to stop himself from smirking at the thought. “Proudly so.”

Oron laughed. “Abelas must love that,” he said. “I wonder how many times she has insulted him by now.”

“I know you find this amusing, Oron, but now is not the time,” Fen’Harel said. “We must remain focused.”

Mythal stepped forward close enough to hear the song of the red lyrium emanating from Anaris’s body. “You will not have your freedom. This I vow.”

“I did not murder you, Mythal, yet I pay the price of those who did. So tell me… where is your _Justice_?” Anaris replied. Mythal shook her head and walked back to Fen’Harel’s side. “You chose to align yourself with the Evanuris and play a false god that catered to your people’s constant neediness. Do not hold me accountable for your own failings.”

“Is that true?” Oron had always wondered how Mythal, being supposedly the best of the Evanruis and the lover of Fen'Harel, had become a god to the People and yet maintained her humanity.

Mythal turned her attention to Oron. “Next time you meet the Inquisitor ask her how easy it is to become a god in the eyes of the fearful and desperate,” she answered, sounding ominous. “Our fate is not so different... and as for you, Anaris, I do not consider the care I showed my people to be one of my failings.”

“Of course you do not, and yet, your reward was death… well done,” Anaris replied. “A brutal death that saw you bound to the very corruption you sought to prevent. And who now is left to thank you?” Anaris remembered the day Mythal was murdered. The act had brought him no pleasure. But perhaps, he felt, that it had been justified for the lies that were told, and for the murders Mythal had committed in the name of her own brand of justice. As far as he was concerned, the Evanuris and Fen’Harel were all deserved of death.

Mythal remained focused on Anaris. “You are no less guilty than the rest,” she said to Anaris. “It is your pride, your vanity, your lust that fuels your desire, and it is a sickness from which the corruption rose and now it threatens us all.” Mythal raised her gauntleted hand and examined the craftsmanship, seeming bored with the conversation. “Tell me something… how long do you believe you can control _her_.”

“You suggest I control her?” Anaris asked. “I do not, nor have I once. She controls her own destiny.”

“Oh I see,” she laughed. “You believe a perverse form of _Justice_ , of me, will do your bidding? She will betray you, and if left unchecked, her anger will consume this world.”

“And that is exactly what I want,” Anaris answered. He placed his hands behind his back, his look calculating, his eyes narrowed. “Fen’Harel’s plans differ little from mine. The only difference is our choice of execution, and finally, the result.”

Fen’Harel stepped forward. “And what of the Evanuris?” he asked. “You would rip the veil apart, throw this world into certain chaos with the poisoned soul of Mythal at the forefront of your assault without thought or care to those who would oppose you, and while doing so, cast us all back into the throes of servitude.” He turned away, looking to his feet with a shake of his head. When he looked again at Anaris it was with pained and tired eyes. History was prone to repeat itself, and here he was again, trying desperately to stop one of his people before plans were put into motion and words became heinous actions that even Anaris and his people would later regret. But there was nothing warm or familiar when he looked upon Anaris; spite was all that remained. Perhaps, Fen’Harel questioned, he should be blamed for this too, that imprisoning Anaris had led to this desperation. But he knew that people, whether spirit or mortal, chose their paths and this was not the first time Anaris had chosen poorly. “I see you are set on this. So be it.”

Fen’Harel returned to Mythal’s side. He heard the sigh that escaped her lips when others remained deaf to it, and he knew she, like him, was resigned to accept that war was now inevitable.

“Dareth shiral,” Anaris spoke. And he was gone.

  
  
  



End file.
